The Sins of Our Fathers
by elusivesilvercrystal
Summary: "Trust no one, Miss Granger, least of all anyone here." How could she trust anyone ever, ever again, when she had never tasted their mind like she'd tasted his? Post-GoF. TimeTurning!Hermione. HG/SS.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: For some of you, this is going to look very familiar. The first few chapters were taken from Of Choice, Chance, and Fate, which was becoming a pain to string along... I had a new idea for SOME of the plot points and split both stories up into a different one. While many of the elements have stayed the same, I have done some editing. This chapter has remained mostly intact... feel free to read through it again, if you like. I've made Dumbly a little more sinister in this version.**

 _Warnings:_ This chapter is Viktor/Hermione and it is rated M FOR A REASON. There is also a case of mind-rape (although, not really, IMO, I feel that some might be uncomfortable with it so here is your warning). Please let me know what you think.

I will understand criticism: I used to be a hard-core HGSS shipper, but lately I've broadened my horizons and have been enjoying some Dramione, as well as HGVK. Also, I know some of you might think that our heroine is too young for sexual encounters, but she is a mature witch, and older than you think she is… dun dun dun.

Plus, we all love us some Sevmione action, so bear with me, it's not hard to accept it. I have purposefully envisioned an experienced Hermione for this fiction, and it will make sense as it goes on. Most of all, just enjoy!

Also, here is my playlist for this lovely chapter: _A Little More Time - Zox, Party Song - Keaton Henson, Little Hands - Keaton Henson, Chin Up - Copeland, Send My Love (To Your New Lover) - Sofia Karlberg (Adele Cover), Unsteady - X Ambassadors (this was a main part of the Prologue, too), Over You - Graffiti6, Say Something - A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera, New Born - Muse (for the encounter between Snape and Hermione, both times)._

·

Chapter One

·

 _"Give me just a little more time,_ _  
 _maybe we will find the words that will change our minds."__

·

Across the library, hidden by a section on the Goblin Rebellions, Magical Weaponry, and the Art of Curse-Breaking, a pair of girls sent Hermione Granger seething looks. She ignored them, choosing instead to hold her head high.

Of course, he was waiting for her—Viktor Krum, her now familiar dark companion—or else the Krummies wouldn't be lurking around every corner to haunt her.

It said a lot that she was willing to endure someone like Viktor (who brought an army of admirers wherever he went) disturb her sanctuary. But Hermione found she liked him immensely. Her first impressions of him had been wrong: he was much more than a Quidditch star. No, he was capable of deep thoughts and inspired conversations. He was kind and determined and very passionate.

But that was exactly the problem. Could she let herself enjoy him? What about her… _other_ obligations?

 _"I wish for you to use it… to protect Harry."_

 _Hermione stared at the time turner, whose chain was wrapped elegantly around Dumbledore's long, elegant fingers._

 _"When… when should I use it? How will I know?"_

 _"I trust your judgement. But should I have a need for you to use it, I will call upon you. I trust that you will do what I ask of you—to protect Harry?"_

 _She chewed her lip, but nodded—she would help him, because it would help Harry. It was her duty as his friend to keep him from delving too deep into trouble, and the time turner could be invaluable so that task._

 _"You will know when it should be used, Miss Granger—and how often or not it will be necessary. Imagine how useful it could be… with it, you have spared a man's life. How many more could you save?"_

 _Gods, she had saved Sirius Black… the murderer—except not really. She'd saved an innocent man. But even then, at fifteen—was she nearing sixteen?—she knew that as much as it was a blessing, it was also a burden to keep the turner. Not only would she likely abuse it for personal means (which were encouraged by the headmaster, as she was to prepare herself to protect Harry, no matter the cost), she would be tasked with using it to turn back events that should not have happened in the first place._

 _If she failed to right them, would it be someone's life in her hands?_

 _"Will you take it, my dear?"_

 _"To protect Harry?"_

 _"To protect Harry, then," he nodded, and dropped the familiar weight into her cupped hands._

She'd yet to use the turner for anything as important as saving the life of Sirius Black. During the summer, she had used it quite often, to practice healing spells and potions with Madam Pomfrey, as well as advanced transfiguration with McGonagall, a little defense with Remus, and some Charms work under the headmaster himself. She had a niggling feeling that the man intended for her to use it for something good (or perhaps just meddlesome) in the near future, although for now it merely served her own personal means: all for the purpose of protecting Harry, in the future, of course.

If the storm that was brewing was any indication, she would need to be ready for much darker times.

Feeling the eyes of two seventh year Hufflepuffs drilling daggers into the back of her head, she removed her hand from the golden chain and cleared her throat. She did not look up to greet the young man as she arrived to their— _her,_ she corrected—spot.

Out of habit, she spoke while unpacking her books, "I have too much work today to bother with you."

He took her hand with him before she could object, pulled her into the seat beside him, taking the books from her. He bowed low and kissed the back of her palm after stacking them neatly in front of her, lingering there as his eyes lifted to meet her, "Then I vill sit in utter silence and vatch you vhen you are not looking."

She could feel the venom from meters away, from the pair. They'd seen the kiss.

Feeling humiliated, she said, "I didn't mean—"

He sat back, pulling a book of his own. Still, when she returned to her work, she could feel his eyes upon her. They were heavier than all the rest.

She fumed for a long time, but found that when he looked at her, all her anger died away. How was it that he could just… _do_ that? It wasn't fair! Hermione frowned at herself, resentful, but could not deny that the weight of eyes left her with a string of butterflies, far more welcoming than the ones the Hufflepuffs had left.

Viktor kept his promise and did not make a single peep even as her quill made loud scratching noises against her parchment. It made her happy that he knew what she needed without even asking for it: and what she needed at this moment was silence, to think about what it was that he was doing to her, and what exactly she was getting herself into.

·

"The… Yule Ball?"

"Yes."

" _Me_?"

"Yes, Herm-oh-neen."

"As in…"

" _Mila_ —I vant you to be my _sreshta_ —date, yes?"

"Er, Viktor… you've had so many offers, already. Why me? I mean, I don't—that's to say, what will everyone think?"

She trailed off, absorbed in her own thought. Of course, she no longer felt annoyed that he mispronounced her name. He made her feel wanted—like she had a voice worthy of being heard. Like someone knew her— _really_ knew her. He could sit in silence while she worked, and when she wanted to be bothered, he would listen to her go on and on about why she was right and he was wrong. And instead of stomping away when she disagreed, he would merely stand his own ground and argue his opinion.

With Viktor, there was no pressure for her to change her mind… for her to give into his opinions, at all. There was no ultimatum for them to agree: only a mutual acceptance that they remain respectful of each other's opinions.

Unfortunately, she had not told him that it made all the difference to her, yet—and, _oh_ , he was walking away from her—

She grabbed his arm, "Yes!"

She could either go with him, or settle for Ron or Harry. And why should she have to settle for anyone? She deserved a break from life, didn't she?

"Yes?"

He said it warily, gazing down at her in surprise, as if he had been preparing himself for a different answer. She felt terribly for having led him to doubt her, but she didn't want to lead him on.

His eyes drifted towards where he hand remained, cuffing his muscular bicep. She did not touch him often, as she insisted that he refrain from taking such liberties with her after the two Hufflepuffs had seen her and then later cornered her assaulting her about her intentions—of course, she'd told them to stuff it, but their attention was worrisome.

He'd seemed embarrassed at first to realize he had overstepped his bounds and caused her trouble. But… since then, she had waged an internal battle between keeping to her own rules. The urge to touch him was so tempting. He had a nice body, beneath all those Durmstrang layers.

Her cheeks were pink, she could feel it, but she leaned forward despite her nervousness and embraced him—a chaste hug couldn't hurt, could it? Viktor would take it as a sign and that would be enough for him to understand. And the Bulgarian seeker, despite the language barriers between them, always seemed to understand.

When she breathed in his scent, she knew that she wanted much more from him, despite knowing also that it was probably mistake. It was so frightening, for her, to realize it, but she was not a little girl anymore and she'd known these changes would overcome her eventually.

When she spoke, it came out too breathy for her liking, " _Yes_ … a _shreshtra._ "

His lips quirked upward, "Now, I know how _you_ veel."

She giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

He beamed at her. She glared, cleared her throat and stormed away.

·

"Herm-oh-ninny—vhat are you doing, _mila_?"

Hermione stood in the magically enlarged cabin, trembling slightly, mostly because it was cold outside and not because he had lifted his wand towards her in the dark. She hadn't even bothered with a cloak, and instead had strutted out over the snow with a few warming charms and the thin dress she'd worn for the ball.

Merlin, the ball… it had been a disaster—Ron had embarrassed her, completely—in front of Parvati, in front of Harry, in front of everyone. Viktor had endured her temper throughout most of the night, but near the end she had been so inconsolable, that she'd just shoved him away to be on her own. Viktor had let her go: he'd known… known that she needed to be alone. He respected her needs, as usual, which infuriated her. It made her want him even more, which was the exact opposite of what she needed.

It had hurt him to push him away, but he'd let her go. He respected her independence, her choices, unlike the boy whom she had thought was her friend. Unlike Ron, even Harry, Viktor could just… see her for who she was and that was the reason why she was standing in front of him, with "mature" intentions as her mother would call them.

She refused to be humiliated again, and so she rounded her shoulders and stepped further into his cabin.

Luckily, she'd taught herself spells to hide her tears after her first year. Of course, she'd only allowed herself a small timeframe to feel miserable. But while she had wallowed, even Snape, who not two months before had teased her for her extended teeth, had sent her a pitying glance.

He'd caught her weeping, curled on the stairwell beneath a poorly cast Disillusionment Charm, and being who he was, he'd sneered at the sight. The private professor had tried to pretend as if he hadn't seen her afterward, but she'd seen the sheen of understanding on his face, before the sneer had marred his visage in that familiar way. It was pity, an emotion she'd thought him incapable of… but, then again, how many times had he, too, felt like she had: unloved, lonely, ugly? Misunderstood? Outcast?

In that moment, she vowed to be kinder to him. Even if he barked at her and called her names, made her cry for days after the harsh words he had expelled at her expense, she would try to forgive him. He knew very little kindness, or so she suspected, considering his dark nature and poor hygiene. He must be terribly lonely, if he knew exactly how she felt. And even if he wasn't, at least, for a single moment, she'd seen how human he could be.

 _"Good night, Professor?" She called out to him as he stalked down the stairwell toward the dungeons. It was spoken like a question—had anyone asked him how much he enjoyed the ball?_ _Probably not. They all knew how much he detested merriment of any kind… he had likely had a more miserable time than she had._

 _Still, rather than pretend to have not seen or heard her, he turned his head, ever so slightly, and muttered, "Hardly… for either of us, it would seem, Miss Granger."_

No, it hadn't been a good night—

But she wasn't going to let Ronald Weasley define the Yule Ball for her, or be subject to further pitying glances by the potions master or the sixth year Ravenclaw who had tripped over her an hour before. She was her own person, with her own heart, her own mind, _and_ her own needs. She shouldn't need to be stepped on to realize that there was one person she knew of who could understand that, or that she should hold onto them for as long as she could.

Hence, why she had broken onto the ship, and he was now bundled up in front of her.

Viktor, despite being wide awake, rubbed the sleep from his face, "How did you in, _mila_?"

"Magic," she answered, proud of how husky her voice could be when she wanted it to.

In the darkness, she could see Viktor's expression, usually so stoic, waver slightly into something else, "The vards—"

"I think your mermaid is off her game."

She'd been enchanted to frighten away intruders… but Hermione was rather talented with magic. She knew more than even she let on, thanks to Dumbledore, and had bypassed the wards easily with a few flicks of her wand in the wooden siren's direction.

"Karkaroff—"

"Don't worry about the wards or Karkaroff, Viktor. I'm here now and I'm not going unless you send me away."

He sat up more and it was then that she noticed he was bare-chested, despite the chill that seemed to surround them. Of course, the blanket he had was lined with fur and likely charmed, and they followed his lap, protecting her from the rest of his nakedness. Something in her—something primal—responded when she noted the v of his torso tickled downward into the fluffy brown of some animal's hide. A patch of black hair disappeared south and she wondered… wondered if, beneath all the mass fur, if he was happy to see her.

"Do you want me to go?"

His voice was thick and brusque when he said, "No."

Her skin felt flush and hot and she knew that she was ready for something more. The tiny kisses they had shared beneath the tapestry, a few days after he'd asked her to the ball had steadily grown heavier as the fateful night had approached. They were moving quickly—far more quickly than normal or socially acceptable. But Hermione was not a normal person and neither was he. They were like two old souls trapped in young bodies.

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat, nervousness eating away at her intestines, "I need…"

When she could not continue, he spoke very softly, "Vut do you need, _mila_?"

"I _need_ you to…" She stepped closer to him, dropping down on the bed beside him, before she pressed her lips boldly to his. He did not touch her with his hands—no, but his lips caressed hers and his mouth opened to accept her tongue, as hers had once when he'd stolen her away from the library to sneak around Hogsmeade, "to…"

When he pulled away, Viktor pressed his cheek into her neck, " _Mila_ , do you need me to make you vorget them?"

She felt like a complete _arsehole_. She felt like an idiot. Of course, he would see right through her and know she was trying to prove something to Ronald, to Harry, to the girls that doubted her beauty and charm.

And now she'd offended him.

"That's not—"

" you like me to make you veel vhat I veel when I look at you?"

He trailed kisses over her neck as he said it, and slid a rough hand over her other shoulder to slide the strap of her dress down… down… she shivered from the cold air that exposed her soft, rounded flesh, " _Oh_... yes. Yes, please."

His mouth captured her, his tongue hot and tantalizing over her frozen skin. She disappeared from her body for a moment, her mind aflame with excitement, overwhelming happiness and nervousness. Eventually, he slid away, and turned her so that she was pinned beneath him.

Dark eyes hovered above hers, concerned and stoic, "Yes?"

He didn't wait for her answer. He was already touching her skin—touching her in places no one else had, with hands and mouth and—

She arched beneath him, slung both arms and legs around him.

As seriously as she could manage in such a precarious position, she assured him, breath hot against his ear, "What do you think the answer is to your question?"

He pulled away from her for a moment, looking at her quite seriously. Panic settled somewhere deep in her belly— _don't stop._

Finally, he whispered, sexily in that rough, angry brogue of his, his thumb running down the length of her inner thigh, "So, you have been thinking about this vor a long time, then?"

She swatted him with the ball of her foot, pulling him as close to her as possible, "Now is not the time for you to become talkative."

He growled and captured her mouth again, with fervor and passion she had not expected from anyone, let alone him.

·

Hermione found herself sneaking across the grounds before dawn, smiling like an idiot. The time turner hung around her neck, slightly warm from her having used it once during the night, and a second time when she had realized she had overslept.

Another girl might have given up after the first time, knowing how uncomfortable it would have been. But she had arrived prepared—equipped with one of the most wonderful inventive potions designed for the purpose of easing a witch's first time, allowing her to heal rapidly and effectively. She'd purchased it months ago… even then, a part of her had known that he would be the one she would choose.

Granted, it had likely been a stupid idea to use the turner with him, but… she trusted Viktor. She trusted him with her secrets and her life. He truly cared about her and if he thought it would cause her harm, he would not say a word.

Although the others would think their relationship an insult to Harry, his competitor, she knew he wouldn't mind—if he knew how happy Viktor made her and he was her friend, he would understand. She would tell him, tomorrow—explain to him how she felt. Ron would never understand, but Harry could withstand the news.

Not every minute detail, of course, but… she wanted to tell him about Viktor. She wanted to tell everyone… well, maybe not Rita Skeeter, or—

"Miss Granger."

She froze instantly at the sound of _his_ voice. Professor Dumbledore stood to the left of her, waiting patiently for her to gather her wits and face him.

When she eventually squared her shoulders, she tried for innocence, "Good morning, Professor—"

"It is quite early, for students to be awake, my dear—or, in your case, quite late?"

She bowed her head slightly, but set her jaw, refusing to feel guilty for something that was no one's business but hers and Viktor's. She was older than she looked, and her parents had raised her to be responsible. She'd performed the necessary charms and brewed a potion to boot. Potions, she corrected—some for safety… others for pleasure. A blush bloomed over her cheeks.

Merlin, why did he have to appear now, of all times? Had he followed her?

 _Of course he had_.

The gift of the time turner had come with a price, of course. Dumbledore never let her forget that.

"I needn't remind you that there are plots afoot that have put our mutual friend in grave danger."

Dread filled her, "Is Harry—"

"Harry is fine for now. I was, actually, speaking for your safety, as well, Miss Granger. The castle and especially the grounds are not places to be roamed in the dead of night by students or friends. Given the range of dispositions our guests, it is wise that we are more careful than ever of who we trust with our secrets, especially when there is darkness to surround their true intentions."

His eyes dropped to the glitter of gold around her neck. She made sure to wrap her scarf tighter around it, hiding it from view.

He continued, "We have made promises to look after Mr. Potter. I trust you will think on that when you make future personal decisions."

Her blood boiled, but she had no voice to confront him, "While your relationship with Viktor Krum is thus far… innocent, for lack of a better term—" she felt her face flush beet red, "—it is my advice that you do not let your heart slip further away from you than it already has. Your choices are your own, my dear, but it is my hope that you will make good ones rather than rash."

Hermione wanted to tell him that he couldn't control her life and that to define her by a sole purpose was insulting and assumptive. She'd done everything he had asked of her, so far: helped Harry through the First Task—had turned back time in order to ensure his victory over the horntail when it proved too powerful for him, and had used her own magic to help his broom summoning. She'd risked expulsion by tampering with the games, she had!

And she wanted very much to tell him that if he was so inclined that he could happily take the time turner back. But if she gave it to him, she couldn't protect Harry like she wanted; that was what she had agreed to—and she had taken it, not because Dumbledore asked it of her, but because she knew it was the right thing to do.

He knew very well it would keep her from speaking against him. Hence, why he had asked it of her in the first place and now was using it against her.

"I understand, sir," she said with a tight, clipped voice, feeling slightly suffocated when he turned his twinkling blue gaze upon her again.

"Of course. Do enjoy the sunrise, my dear. I find that looking forward is the best way to start the day."

·

It was foolhardy—stubborn—but she continued to see Viktor, although arguably more secretively than before. He wanted them to be public, but accepted her desire for privacy. She wondered if he knew about her duties… she never asked. They carried on as normally to the observer, but behind closed doors, they were building fires—great, roaring, crackling fires that left her tingling from her head to her toes.

She felt her heart flutter at the memories. It was so very foolish of her, and selfish… of course, Dumbledore was right, and she was being an idiot. But she couldn't stay away.

He was like a drug, Viktor was: her first taste of desire.

"I do not like that one."

She looked up from her book. He was glaring across the library—at Draco, who was holding court with his cronies, making a show of bullying one of the younger Slytherins to fetch him the books he needed for the same essay she was working on for Arithmancy.

She played dumb, "Which one?"

"The vone who likes to hear his own voice at every meal."

"Draco?" Hermione snorted, "I don't particularly care for him either."

"Reason vhy I do not like him more. I do not like the vay he looks at you."

"Viktor—it's nothing. You understand, don't you? I'm…"

" _Vŭzkhititelen_?"

She rolled her eyes, although she could feel a blush tinging her cheeks, "I don't think Draco shares the sentiment."

"Then he is blind and stupid."

"It's not his fault… He's been raised to hate me because I'm a Muggleborn. You know that."

"Vhat does it matter, anyvay?"

They'd avoided the subject. He didn't care that she was the daughter of Muggles, and that was all she needed to know, "I thought Durmstrang doesn't accept—"

"Vizards like you do not attend Durmstrang, historically because of prejudice. Today, however, the majority choose to remain in… _grazhdanin_ —Muggle—schools in Bulgaria which also teach magic, as vell as Muggle schooling, so they do not have to choose which vorld they vould like to live in, but experience both. Other vizards may choose this path if they so desire—I have not because it is tradition in my family to attend. Out of obligation to my grandvather's memory, I go to Durmstrang."

She blinked in surprise… she hadn't known that. That sounded… well, amazing, "Well, you know why he doesn't like me and why others might not—I'm sure he's voiced his distaste. But I could care less what Draco Malfoy thinks, Viktor. It's your opinion that matters… and what _you_ don't seem to understand is that I can take care of myself if need be."

She could feel her temper rising. Of course, he was a man—he would want to protect her honor, just like Ron would. That was just the thing she needed… another haphazard duel in the corridors where she would end up getting struck with a heinous jinx. Although, there _was_ a silver-lining to that story: she couldn't stop smiling now that her teeth were no longer jutting over her lip unhandsomely.

"It is the opposite, _mila._ I see you are very capable of taking care ov yourselv—more than any vitch in Britain… or Bulgaria."

He was so stalwart, calm, constant—a rock. No, a mountain unfazed by the waging storm that was her life.

Once more, she was flooded with… _feelings_ for him. With a heavy sigh, she tried to suppress some of them—remembering her promise to Albus Dumbledore. When she met his gaze, however, her insides melted and all those thoughts went with them.

"Vill you allow me to teach you some tricks, _mila_?"

She looked around wildly, wondering if anyone had heard him, a devilish expression on her face, "What kind of tricks, Viktor?"

His dark eyes twinkled mischievously, "Vhile I heartily approve of your assumptions, I vas thinking of magic."

She broke her own rule and teased him, "It is a sort of magic, isn't it, when you do that thing with your—"

His lips twitched, but he interrupted her with a stern expression, "Hermy-own—boys like _him_ do not play by the rules."

"Who says I do?"

He smirked slightly, "Coming from the vitch who covers her _zadnik_ when she sneaks out of my bed?"

" _Viktor!_ "

He laughed, causing a few of his admirers to glare at her from across the library. She shot them seething glances and leaned towards him possessively, yet making certain not to touch him. The last thing she needed was that Skeeter woman posting an article about her.

"Let me teach you the proper hexes to deal vith boys like him _._ "

"Fine, but maybe you'll find I can teach you a few things, too."

"I have no doubt, _mila_."

·

The Second Task had scared her.

Not the dangerousness of it, but the fact that Viktor's feelings for her went to the depth that they did. She was precious enough to him that he would miss her if she was gone… they all knew what the egg had implied: he would miss her if she died. And there was no denying that the task could have gone to great lengths to find someone else close to him. Gabrielle was evidence enough of that.

Out of Bulgaria and Britain, all of Europe, the world, Viktor Krum would miss her the most.

Somehow, that made what they were doing realer. It scared her. And he could sense it in her. She felt guilt flood her belly when she saw him waiting for her and turned in the other direction to avoid him. She needed more time… she did not make decisions lightly, and to stay with him longer would be a big decision for her. While his had been made, she still had the chance to save the both of them from a tragic end.

It was not a good feeling, thinking about breaking off from, nor was it good thinking about staying. Wasn't it leading him on: how could she put him through this, knowing that she could not give him all of herself?

She knew he cared about her, deeply. She cared about him, too. But while the feelings she felt were growing stronger, she was also willfully suppressing them—knowing, someday, she would see him leave again, or worse, Dumbledore would ask her to let him go. At the end of the year, what would they even be to each other? He would graduate, and continue on with a glorious quidditch career. And she would be stuck here, at Hogwarts, at Harry's side. Where she was needed.

It was easier to let him go, a little each day… wasn't it?

"Hi," she whispered when she sat down.

It wasn't easier. And she was weak.

Dark eyes looked at her, mildly surprised. She could tell he was unsettled—he was hurt. He had missed her.

"Viktor—"

"You do not need to say vhat you are thinking, _mila_. I know."

"But—"

"I understand."

"You don't—"

"I enjoy vhat we have."

"You do?"

"It is enough to be near you, now, in this moment. The rest… the rest is desired, but not needed by me."

"I… I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry. Sorry is for regrets. I do not regret you."

"Me either."

"Good."

·

"You do not look him in the eye."

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes."

"Vhy not?"

"I… I don't know."

"Perhaps you should think about vhy you do not do this, _mila._ You have good instincts, I think. _"_

She glanced up from her book, puzzled. He was already ignoring her, lost in the depths of the book. Her gaze trailed across the title: _Zashtita na Uma_.

Translated, it was _Protecting the Mind_ … Occlumency?

From then on, whenever she looked at Professor Snape, who'd shared with her such a mundane moment that night of the Yule Ball, she wondered… but surely, he wouldn't use such an ability—a historically dark ability—on students?

Had he ever used it on her? How would she know?

Viktor began to teach her the basics of Occlumency, although it proved to be a difficult magic. She learned more about him than she had about anyone before… and he, her.

·

"Off to let the Bulgarian bugger you again, Granger?"

Hermione stopped in the corridor. She had, actually, been headed off to meet Viktor—not for what Draco implied, but for something much more enjoyable: dueling practice.

"Is he going to use his broomstick this time, or his wand?"

Viciously, she turned on her heel. There was a trio of Slytherins at his beck and call: Blaise, Gregory, Victor. Across from them was a pair of Ravenclaws who watched them with trepidation. One of them, however, hardly hid the smirk that was on her lips. In her hands was the latest issue of the Daily Prophet: complete with a picture of Hermione (outdated, with her old teeth) gazing wantonly at something. In reality, she'd been looking at a book that had been checked out for two months—which was clutched by of one Viktor Krum at the very beginning of the term, when he'd been working up the courage to speak to her. When the girl saw her looking at the picture, she sniggered.

Immediately, Hermione decided she would not endure such insults publicly. With another glance, she assured that there were no teachers present. Of course, she didn't waste time waiting for Draco to wield his wand, but merely flicked hers towards him, almost lazily.

" _Calvorio._ "

When Viktor leaned over to sneak a kiss on her cheek the next day—in private, of course, knowing her to remain as chaste as possible where they could be caught by watchful eyes—he grinned. He'd seen Draco that morning, as had the rest of the Great Hall.

He looked like a very naked ferret, as she had intended.

"Bald is not a good look for him."

"Who?"

"Ah… _otrichane._ Just as I taught you."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Viktor."

"No? Remind me never to anger you. You… you could get avay vith murder, I think."

"I'll keep it in mind."

Would it ever come to that, she wondered?

·

Hermione looked at her hands carefully. They were still touching his cheek, as she had been kissing him when he asked. He always asked her these things when she was least expecting them—likely hoping to catch her with her guard down.

She removed her fingers, but he snatched them and returned them with a smug grunt. He liked it when she held his face in both of her hands.

Her eyes searched his, heart breaking inside of her, "Visit… visit you?"

"You do not have to answer me immediately."

"Viktor, I don't know—"

"You do not make decisions lightly, _mila._ I know this."

She sat up from where they were lying—a makeshift bed which they had transfigured together in an abandoned classroom. It was entirely inappropriate, but she had been practicing anti-animagus wards, as well as a few detection charms (not repulsion, as that would attract one hook-nosed professor). Not only would the anti-animagus ward alert her to an approaching McGonagall, but she suspected it would help her capture a certain bug-eyed reporter, too. If they had to, she would use the turner to escape detention or the snap of a photographer… and then she would lie in wait to finally bottle the bitch.

It would be the best use of the time turner, yet. Well, second-best.

Viktor's eyes were closed when she spoke again. She stroked his chest, kissed his neck, tenderly… as she did not usually do for him. His face, so harsh, softened, allowing her to see how much doing so affected him.

"I do care about you," she blurted suddenly, wanting very much to memorize his face forever.

Dark eyes opened, and he met her gaze with one that was too powerful for her to describe, "I have never velt the vay I veel about you vor anyone else, _mila_."

She dropped down to press her face in his neck and wondered— _what_ _if_?

What if?

·

"You'll be careful?"

"I vill."

She thought about it for a moment, "Did your grandmother foresee you winning the tournament?"

He knew she was rooting for Harry, for Hogwarts, and his voice was slightly irritated when he answered, "She saw vhat she vanted to see."

She'd been a seer, or claimed to be. She foresaw he would be a great athlete, and would go on to win the World Cup.

She frowned at the tension in his arms. Something was off, but she couldn't place it.

Looking away from her, he asked, "What do you think, _mila?_ "

Honestly, she spoke and her voice wavered, "I—I have a bad feeling."

His features softened and he looked at her, then nodded, "Then it is best I have vaith in your instincts. I vill look out vor your vriend, too, Hermy-own."

Breathlessly, she whispered, "Oh, Viktor."

His only reply was a squeeze of her shoulder with a steady hand.

Her heart swelled that he would care enough to sacrifice his win, just to make sure Harry was safe. Gently—lovingly—the Bulgarian champion brushed the tear that fell onto her cheek with his lips, then rubbed his fingers in an x motion over his heart, "Vor good luck."

She couldn't bear watching him leave her after that, so she turned around and walked away before he could kiss her lips. If he had, she feared she would crumble.

·

Hermione found herself standing immediately. She'd seen—well, actually she'd felt it. Harry! Harry and Cedric… they were gone, completely. She'd slipped Harry a tracking device, something of her own design. When the harmless plastic ring she wore on her hand grew cold, she knew he was far away from her. Knowing that that could mean nothing good, she jumped to her feet, intent to disappear to use the time turner to warn or prevent him.

It could not be a coincidence that Viktor had been dragged out from the field, too. Somebody was tampering with the games, just as she had suspected from the beginning, otherwise she would not have needed to use the turner so often to protect Harry.

And, just as before, if she had to, she would stop them. She had time on her side, after all.

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Ginny asked, her brown eyes snapping to her friend's.

 _She can sense it too._

"Probably off to go console her boyfriend now that he's lost the tournament. Ask him how it feels that Harry's won, will you, 'Mione?"

"Viktor is _not_ my—" She spun on her heel to face away from the scowling redhead, "You know what? Don't speak to me, Ronald Weasley. You're a complete git—sore winning is worse, if you ask me, you—you _toe rag!_ "

"Oh, come on, 'Mione! Don't be such a nag. Go on! Give Vicky my love! Kiss it better, right? Just like the rest of his Krummies, you are."

She ignored him—he was worried about Harry, too, and was taking it out on her. Their conversation didn't matter. She would make it so that it never happened.

Hermione had nearly escaped the box, sneaking behind Flitwick who had been assigned to maintain the order of their section. Her arm was snatched as she did so and she found herself manhandled back inside the perimeter by a stony-faced Professor Snape.

"Professor," she spun around to face him with a plea, "Sir, I have to—"

"Miss Granger, you will return to your box."

She gathered breath through her nose, then expelled it through her mouth, " _Please_ , sir. You don't understand—I can fix this—"

He ignored her, pushing her back into the box forcefully. She winced at the grip he held on her arm, so tight she feared he was going to leave a bruise.

Darkly, he released her, "Miss Granger, all students have been instructed to remain in their seats. As entitled as you might be, you are a student and will abide by the same rules. _Sit_."

Ginny glanced at her from the side, glaring at the back of Snape's head and pulling out her wand. Hermione shook her head, then looked across the crowd towards where the headmaster waited, surrounded by whispering, worried-faced adults.

She met his blue, twinkling eyes, gesturing towards the time turner which he knew was hidden beneath her shirt, but he didn't seem to want to meet her gaze, nor comprehend how desperately she needed him to let her turn back. Angrily, she shouted, "Headmaster!"

It was drowned out in the crowd, but surely he had been looking for her, knowing what had happened to Harry.

Angrily, she turned to Snape, feeling betrayed and helpless. When Viktor had been hurt, she'd stayed put. She hadn't grabbed the time turner—and she had known he would be watching her had anything happened to the Durmstrang champion. As much as she had wanted to reach for it, she hadn't, knowing that would be the sacrifice necessary to keep her mind on Harry. But as soon as the Boy-Who-Lived disappeared, she had reached for it, without question—had jumped from her seat to use it to protect him.

" _Sit_ ," the potions master seethed. He loathed repeating himself, but… but he could feel the bad aura, too. She knew he could.

She ignored his demand and, one last time, looked over towards the headmaster. Dumbledore had ceased his conversation with Amos Diggory and was looking towards her. When he met her eyes, he made a curt turn of his head— _no._

"Fuck," she muttered.

 _Why not?_

"Thirty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for language," Snape growled, "Sit down and stay put, or it will be fifty _more_."

She didn't really hear what he said: she was too busy glaring at the headmaster, willing him to look her way and see the fury that was brewing in her gut. What, exactly, was the point of giving it to her, if she wouldn't be allowed to use it to save the boy she… she could have loved, and even the one he _had_ asked her to protect?

Numbly, after she realized the headmaster was willfully ignoring her, she glanced towards a glaring Professor Snape. Hermione noticed immediately that his skin was sheened with sweat. He was frowning, more than usual, and seemed to be favoring his right side. She remembered what Harry had said earlier that year—that he had seen his mark, the night of the Yule Ball.

He was a Death Eater, or had been one, at least. There was no denying that.

The same night that she had thought he looked rather human, Harry had seen him as a devil. Which was it, then?

When her eyes flashed to his left arm, out of curiosity and contemplation, he sneered at her.

" _Fifty points_ , Granger!"

The collective groan was enough to alert her that if they hadn't already been losing the House Cup, they were now.

"Please, Professor, you don't understand… I…" He must have seen the despair in her eyes, because he did not take even more points when she stood stubbornly higher. Snape merely glared down at her with glittering, blacker than ever eyes… they were darker than Viktor's, so black they were devoid of emotion and thought.

She peered into the abyss defiantly, thinking…

 _"You do not look into his eyes… vhy?"_

Snape smirked down at her. She glared back at him, wondering… willing him to dare and enter her mind, if only to make him understand—if he saw it, would he let her go to Harry? Would that allow her to see his loyalty to Dumbledore or… was he a servant of Voldemort?

She needed to know and so she invited him into her thoughts. Unfortunately, he took the bait she offered, slipping easily into her own thoughts—more easily than she could have ever suspected.

 _"You will know when it should be used, Miss Granger—and how often or not it will be necessary. Imagine how useful it could be… with it, you have spared a man's life. How many more could you save?"_

She willed him to leave her head, then, as he had received the message, but he might not have heard her. Instead of abiding by her wishes or perhaps not having heard them, he pushed away from the headmaster, using that memory to find other threads to pluck from instead.

The first was her memory of first year, when she'd lit his robes on fire.

 _"Incendio!"_

She didn't plea for him to leave her mind. She pushed at him, determined to push him out without asking, wanting to prove that she could do—that she could best him. He seemed to push harder into her memories—she could feel him pressing into her mind, almost as if he was pressing a finger into her temple… or maybe a knife, as it burned like hell.

 _She was sobbing into her knees on the staircase, and Snape was looming in front of her. In his eyes, she saw something kindred: loneliness._

 _"Good night, Professor Snape?"_

 _"Hardly… for either of us, it would seem, Miss Granger."_

She tried to close her eyes, but she couldn't. Instead, she pushed at him, trying to will him away with magic, and when that failed, with pure will and determination.

 _"Mila, may I kiss you… here?"_

 _She smiled, shook her head yes._

 _"Oh, yes—yes, yes…_ _yes_ _!"_

No… those thoughts led to similar ones, more intimate ones, and Snape shuffled through them ruthlessly. They were on the banks of the lake, in the moonlight, covered in Harry's cloak which she had nicked.

 _Viktor loomed over her, kissed her, "Obicham te."_

 _She knew what it meant—she did not say it back._

 _He entered her anyways, burying himself inside of her to the hilt and groaning a kiss against her flesh as he did so. Hermione could feel him—every movement was bliss and she clung to him desperately, wishing to keep him with her always and yet knowing she would never be able to have him truly._

 _With trembling fingers, she took his face in her hands and kissed him._

" _More."_

 _She wanted more time, more opportunities. She wouldn't ever get them._

GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!

 _"You could get avay vith murder, I think."_

 _She could hear her own thoughts, wondering if she would ever have to kill to protect Harry, and knowing, deep inside, that she would. Dumbledore would no doubt ask it of her. Such was the price of the time turner…_

NO!

 _"It is enough to be near you, now, in this moment."_

 _It wasn't, and that wasn't fair._

"Stop it!" She willed verbally.

She was not going to let him have a run of her mind. She was not going to let him see her thoughts, to experience _her_ memories! But she wanted to get him out of her mind, on her own, rather than allow him to leave of his own volition.

 _"Filthy mudblood!"_

 _"Freak!"_

 _"Hogarth, she's… god, how could we have made a_ _witch_ _?"_

She could feel him being pulled away. The others were looking at her now—she could feel their eyes upon her. They didn't matter—all that mattered was her and Snape and his magic. She refused to let him leave! Hermione wanted to prove herself capable and hooked her fingers into his magic.

 _"We have made promises to look after Mr. Potter. I trust you will think on that when you make future personal decisions. While your relationship with Viktor Krum is thus far… innocent, for lack of a better term, it is my advice that you do not let your heart slip further away from you than it already has. Your choices are your own, my dear, but it is my hope that you will make good ones rather than rash."_

She couldn't love him. She couldn't, if she wanted to focus on protecting Harry.

Seeing it through Snape's eyes made her realize that… and something in her broke in her chest. Feeling it again, she could feel the wound gape open more, spilling all of the emotions she'd tried to lock away with it. But it at least gave her the strength to drive _him_ out.

Snape's spell was wavering. She _could_ beat him.

 _Her teeth were still growing in her mouth. Snape loomed in front of her, his face cold, but his lips turned upwards in a smile he spared for no one unless he wanted them to feel fear and hatred. She whimpered when the bones jutted beneath the edges of her fingers—_

 _"I see no difference."_

 **GET OUT AND STAY OUT!**

Snape snapped out of her mind, pushed by her mental expulsion, just as she felt her self-pity tearing her from the inside out. He did not look at her when he strode away and she glared at him as he did so.

"Hermione—Hermione, you're bleeding!"

Ginny scooted closer, pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it to Hermione's upper lip—the blood was flowing so freely from her nose, it had already soaked her shirt.

"What a git—bloody greasy bat. Did he hex you?"

 _You don't even know the half of it, Ron._

 _"No, I…" Hermione sought for an answer, "I was just so angry."_

 _"So angry your nose bled," Ginny shook her head, "Yeah, sounds about right."_

 _Hermione didn't laugh, and neither did the redhead._

 _"Oi_ , Granger! You cost us eighty points!"

"SHUT IT, LEE!"

Hermione could tell Ginny was on edge. The furious glare she sent towards Jordan rivaled her mother's.

"I'm okay, Gin," she assured, removing the hanky from her neck and clearing the mess with magic, "Thank you."

"Are you, really?" she allowed Hermione to clean her scarf of the blood and accepted a shake of her head as adequate response. She was not as foolish as Ron to believe this to have been a mere cause of frustration, and her eyes trailed after the black figure of the potions master as he approached the teacher's box, "Something is terribly wrong, isn't it?"

Her eyes trailed from Snape's back to the headmaster, anger flowing through her veins when he met her gaze. The dark-haired man glanced up towards her and frowned, before turning back to speak with the man. Dumbledore's eyes did not leave her as they spoke.

"Yes… something is terribly wrong."

·

"Miss Granger."

"Professor," she said in surprise. She had tried to sneak away, several times. First, Snape had been there… then there had been chaos, and even though she had tried, she could not get away. They'd forced her to the hospital wing, having seen the blood on her shirt… and when they (Mr. Weasley and a hollow-eyed Harry) were all asleep, she'd planned to go back—to turn and fix it all.

The longer she waited, however, the harder it would be to change the past—

"It's too late, Miss Granger."

She stood in front of him, just outside the hospital wing, in an alcove where she had planned to slip away without alerting or waking anyone. He'd been waiting for her to emerge, of course.

Cursing, she realized she should have just done it from her hospital bed. Bugger anyone who woke and saw her, or anyone who was there when she arrived. She wouldn't have ended up back there if she could—

"Sir—I can… I can go back ten hours, at most—to save Cedric, I would need even less. Please—"

"There is nothing that can be done, Miss Granger."

"Headmaster… headmaster, _why_?"

He was quiet. For the first time, he looked truly old, burdened, tired.

She stood in front of him: just a girl who wanted desperately to save someone's life, as she had Sirius Black's.

"If you were to go back, then I fear that Mad-Eye Moody would be killed in the process, or Harry himself. The old mantra that Death collects all dues is quite true, in my experience, and I fear what might happen if you prevent this event. Harry might not escape, if... well. Even if you could prevent him from taking the portkey, there is no guarantee that Crouch would not take him there himself. I fear that Mr. Diggory's death is a necessary sacrifice. He is the least useful casuality."

"A _necessary_ …least _useful_?"

Dumbledore met her gaze: it was no longer the headmaster who looked at her, but a man who was going to lead a war. Even if she could spare a life, as he had said she could not so long ago, he was worried that the outcome would be worse than it had been. He was weighing options: letting Death take the favors of young lives when they were innocent of crime or sin.

It came down to this: Mad-Eye Moody was an asset. Cedric Diggory was not. Harry's life was precious for some reason, more precious than his, or hers, or perhaps anyone's. So would she face the same fate as the Hufflepuff champion if she proved herself a similar nuisance?

"You're going to try again."

"What? No, I'm—"

She hissed as she felt him swipe at the crude wall she built around her mind.

"I will say this once and only once, Miss Granger. Should you disobey me, I will not hesitate to see that you find yourself at a loss to remember the time turner, Harry Potter, this school, magic at all... Should you turn back time, now, and undo Diggory's death, you will no sooner find yourself a nameless, ordinary Muggle."

She lost all thought. Was he... _threatening_ her?

"That is how severe this situation is. And if you had trusted me, we would not have needed to have this conversation. Now, do I need to confiscate the device from you, or will you comply with my orders?"

She opened her mouth… closed it. She shook her head. She would comply.

"Smart girl. Now, get some sleep, Miss Granger. You will find soon enough that it will escape your grasp in times such as these."

·

Viktor was standing in front of her, stark naked, stretching languidly. Although he was not classically handsome, there was a masculinity to him that made her feel… gooey, especially when his muscles rippled like that.

He turned and collapsed onto her, groaning as he did so, kissing her nipples one after the other then lifting himself hover over her, heart to heart. For a moment, he lingered so that as much of his skin could touch hers. His legs tangled with hers, just as his fingers locked in the curls that framed her face to tilt her head back. He whispered her name as clearly as he could manage before delving his tongue against the pulse of her neck, slowly drifting downward.

After losing his mind—after being imperiused—he'd been desperate for her touch, had kissed her as if it could drive every demon from his door. Although it was a terrible idea to fall so deeply into him after what had happened, she let him do it. It would be the last time, and they were both very much aware of the fact.

To think about what would happen hurt her physically in her heart, but she couldn't deny him anything he asked when he looked so lost. So she let him touch her with all the passion that he needed to make himself feel less hollow, let him whisper in her ear that he loved her with words she knew how to translate, even knowing that she could not spare him the same sentiment.

It was not that she was unfeeling. She kissed him back with passion, driven with the same need that he showed her. She turned twice—three times, even though they had to abandon their location each instance to avoid overlapping—allowing them to explore each other's bodies hungrily, greedily, giving them as much time as she could before she would shatter completely.

In a way, she was giving him a small part of her—forfeiting it for him to keep with a small, desperate hope that he could return it to her someday.

Maybe, just maybe, if she survived this, whatever it was, she could find him again. But for now, she was choosing her memories, her magic, over him. If she were a better person, a braver one, perhaps she would make a different choice...

But she had to think of Harry. Her desires didn't matter anymore.

" _Velikolepen_ ," he murmured against her skin, touching his lips to the softest, most tender part of her, "Any vun that does not think so is blind."

"Viktor," she moaned desperately. He continued, making certain she knew… knew how beautiful she was to him.

He pulled away from her core to press his mouth into hers—she could taste herself on his lips. It made tears gather in her eyes, knowing this would be the last time she would have with him.

The last time she would feel beautiful.

As much as she wanted that piece of her back someday, it was easy to accept that they would not find one another again. A part of her was aware, deep down, that if she did not go to him that summer that what they had would be too damaged to ever be the same.

The magic would be taken from them, just as her innocence had been taken when Dumbledore denied her the opportunity to go back and save Cedric and spare Harry's guilt.

" _Mila…_ do not cry."

"I… Viktor, I lo—"

"No, _mila._ It is enough that you are near me, now—in this moment. Do not hurt over me and do not lie to spare me pain. I am stronger than I look, no?"

In her heart, she had known, from the very beginning that they would not last forever. It didn't make it hurt any less when she told him she would not be coming to Bulgaria. But this— _this_ was not what she had been prepared to hear from him…

Had he pushed her, would she have crumbled into him?

"I c-can't visit you this summer," she managed to whimper, her voice cracking again. She was going to add, _my parents won't allow it,_ but the lie tasted too horrible. He didn't want lies and the truth would not hurt him as terribly as she thought it would.

Even if she told him why, he would understand and she didn't want him to understand. She wanted him to fight her, to make her fight for him. But he wouldn't, because he loved her too much to change her.

Instead of fighting, he merely smiled, and said, "I know this, Hermy-own _._ "

Because he did. He knew her. And she didn't love him, not yet. But she could have, given the chance. She would have, had he allowed her, or if she had allowed herself to, or if Dumbledore hadn't spoiled him for her.

It wasn't enough, this almost love, and it wasn't fair. But she had made a promise and she would keep it. Harry needed her more than she needed Viktor.

It wouldn't serve either of them to cry more over what they could not—would not—change. So Hermione merely wrapped herself around him and let them both escape in that moment, crying his name when he touched her rather than cursing her heart for betraying her. The young witch moaned for him to make her feel beautiful, to make her remember him forever, but she did not turn again to keep him with her longer than she deserved. This time was the last and they parted with a single embrace.

There was no good-bye, just a soft, chaste kiss and a look between them: he knew her, she knew him, but they were no long _them._

Only after, when she'd returned to her dorm and crumpled into the sheets with tears and sobs, did she acknowledge that it wasn't enough, not really, to have a single moment in time with someone when you cared about them, when you could _see_ them and they could see you. Nor, she realized, would it ever be enough when it was someone you _loved_.

She only hoped she would never be cursed with such feelings again.


	2. Chapter 2

_Playlist: Wildflowers – Tom Petty, Blossom – Noah Gundersen,_ _This is War – 30 Seconds to Mars_ _, 100 Suns – 30 Seconds to Mars, Between the Bars – Elliot Smith, Can You Tell – Ra Ra Riot, Volcano – Damien Rice_

The Sins of Our Fathers

·

Chapter Two

·

"Time is the longest distance between two _places."_  
 _Tennessee Wiliams_

·

"Hermione—Hermione? HERMIONE. JEAN. GRANGER!"

The girl in question jerked, lifting her head slightly to blink towards the door of her bedroom in surprise. Her mother, Jean, was standing in the threshold, wearing that pinched expression that she did when Hermione was doing something untoward.

Strangely enough, in her mother's eyes, squirreling away in her room surrounded in piles of books was less unsavory than had she snuck over to the next door neighbors' for the rambunctious party they'd held all through the night. It didn't seem to bother Jean that, as children, the same siblings who had thrown the party had teased her relentlessly. Of course, that was as much of a sore subject for her mother as it was for her. But it was better to let bygones be bygones, in Jean's eyes, for the sake of socializing her socially inept daughter.

"Hey, Mum," she attempted to sound cheerful.

"Don't 'Hey, Mum' me, young lady," the woman said stiffly, "Have you accomplished _anything_ today—besides the inhalation of the written word?"

Hermione did not have the energy to fight her mother today. She hardly had the energy to leave her room, let alone deal with her mother's constant pushing of her—it had been relentless since she had arrived home two weeks prior. Much to her mother's chagrin, her daughter had not arrived happy and boasting of tales about her adventures after months of schooling, but had slugged through the door with heavy shoulders and a melancholy that was unpalatable to the socialite female Dr. Granger.

It had been such a joy for Jean when Hermione had returned home from school that first summer with various stories about her adventures with Ron and Harry—finally, finally she'd been able to tell her mum about her _friends—_ and even more so comforting when the pattern repeated for two years after. And Hermione knew why Jean had always wanted it for her. Friends were truly… magical. They dulled aches she had never known she had, filling in the holes that her lonely childhood had left gaping and raw, and soothing a sadness that was often stifling for intelligent young women.

But as she had grown older, she had come to realize that friendships and loyalty were accompanied by responsibilities that were rather crippling, too. Because of Harry, she'd given up perhaps one of her only chances at true love. Because of him, she was silently dealing with the guilt of Cedric's death, crumbling beneath a mountain of guilt for not having done anything to stop it. Because of _him,_ her best friend, the pattern could only continue—she would protect him to her death, and as much as she was willing, that frightened her.

Still, she could never blame him, but she knew of no other way to deal with it except to escape—to books. If only her mother could understand that… but to tell her the truth was likely to make Jean tighten her hold on her daughter, and it was already rather suffocating.

"Look at this mess!" Jean gestured towards the books. They were the only misplaced objects in the room. Everything else was neat and tidy and alphabetized. The books, however, were strewn about Hermione in stacks and piles. Some were opened on the floor and others were lying face down to keep their place on the table.

The ones sitting in front of her, on her pillow, were both open. The smaller was placed inside the larger and she was trying to read them both, to compare the differing opinions of the two authors more closely. Both were devoted to the subject of Occlumency: an art which she had become, desperately, fascinated with.

She blamed Viktor. The very thought of him made tears prick.

But at least she wasn't thinking about Dumbledore, and the fact that her very relationship with magic was being threatened.

"I'm fairly certain your grades will not suffer if you take five minutes to tidy, or an hour to shower," her mother said, crossing her arms, "Or—God forbid—brush your hair, put on clothes, eat—"

"I'm dressed—"

"Not properly, no, and no amount of clothes could make up for whatever is going on top of your head right now," the dentist said, gesturing to her neat, polished appearance, despite it having been hidden beneath a lab coat for most of the day, "Your father and I are entertaining guests tonight, or have you forgotten?"

Hermione hadn't forgotten—she'd been hoping to avoid the ordeal. She didn't think she could bear her mother's crippling praise of her to her friends tonight. There were several other things she'd rather deal with: a Hungarian horntail, or maybe another bout of Professor Snape's legilimency.

 _Perhaps not that._

She'd had a headache for two days—both from crying over Cedric, and also (if the second nose bleed was an indication) her resistance against his mind magic. She knew that it was not the spell that caused her pain, but her rather… unpolished method of counterattacking it. As the many books that now lined her floor had told her, she had gone about it all the wrong way. But she'd accomplished what many could not without a mentor and for that she was grateful.

The next time Snape tried something, he would not be so successful, and she would not be so stupid. Or so she could hope.

Or was that against the rules, too? If she learned Occlumency, would Dumbledore wipe her memory? Could one prevent their memory from being tampered with in the first place?

"You can't bury your face in books forever, Hermione!"

She began to pick up books from the floor, much to her daughter's protest. Although it didn't look like it, Hermione was in the middle of some intense research. The girl sat up slightly, and reached out, carefully grabbing a few. The Monster Book of Monsters rattled on its shelf nearby, causing her mother to frown—deeply.

"I'm going out tonight, anyway," Hermione said almost gruffly, rolling off the bed to poke the book hard in its spine. It squirmed, but grew still.

Her mother continued to tidy, eyes avoiding the moving inanimate objects, ranting as she paced, "Considering you have nothing better to do with your time, you will be dressed and ready, whether or not—oh. Oh, are you? With who?"

Jean stopped grasping for anything with a binding with an owlish blink. Her daughter shook her head.

"I'm going in the city to meet a friend," Hermione lied, scooping up some of the books to walk over to the mirror to pretend to care about her appearance. She did wince—her hair was a right mess.

It wouldn't matter, though. The truth was she was going to stuff her backpack full of books and find a nice spot outside, perhaps a few blocks down, where no one would bother her—her mother would never be the wiser, if she lied smoothly enough.

" _What_ friends?"

It was spoken with such surprise, Hermione blanched, "Just… friends from school—we're going to see a film, or get some dinner. Both."

Not friends in the neighborhood, who were likely her mother's spies.

"That sounds very nice... Ron or Harry?"

She didn't like the tone of her mother's suggestion, as if she couldn't have any other friends. Neville was her friend, although he was more wizard than Ron even was. Ginny was her friend.

 _They're not normal friends, though,_ and she knew that was always an issue with her mum.

"Neither," Hermione said, wanting vainly to impress her mother in some other way, "Harry's relatives would never let him meet me in London and Ron lives too far—in Devon, remember?"

"Oh, in Devon, that's right—but can't they… erm—teleport?"

"Apparate? Sure, but Ron's dad works late, usually, and his mum's got her hands full with the house—she wouldn't like letting him run around the city on his own, either. She's very protective."

"Well, I trust you, Hermione," her mother said, although Hermione could detect a hint of wariness to her voice, "Will you call me when you get where you and…"

"Dean," she lied, instinctively.

Her mother's eyes shot to her hairline—a _boy_ —"Have you told your father about this… Dean?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and whined slightly, "Mum!"

Unfortunately, he had already heard. A male voice called out from the corridor, "Is _he_ the one you've been mooning over then?"

Both women went completely still, surprised at the sound of Hogarth's voice. He popped his head over his wife's shoulder, giving his daughter a stern look that she knew he only half-meant. The young witch met his eyes—they were kind, warm… not as piercing or expectant as her mother's. Proud, even, if a little worried. He was far more understanding than her mum.

"No… that was a different boy," she admitted softly, vulnerably. She couldn't lie to him as easily.

Jean made a soft sound of surprise, "A different…?"

The way she sounded excited about Hermione's jumping from boy to boy made her slightly sick.

"Good," Hogarth said sternly, "I was worried I'd have to hurt someone tonight. New boy will be picking you up, won't he? I'd like to meet him, you know, besides—tell him what's what."

"Dad," she whined, pleading with him with her eyes.

"Oh, leave her alone, Hogarth," his wife said, although Hermione could tell she was enjoying this dialogue. She'd longed for the days when Hermione would bloom… and, it seemed, those days were nigh.

"It's a father's right to throw around his expectations and some mild to mildly-severe threats where it concerns his daughter's heart."

"Cut it out, Hogarth. We both know you're no brute," his wife glared at him, good-naturedly, "You couldn't frighten a field mouse."

Hogarth wasn't exactly masculine, although his jaw was square and he was quite handsome. He was more bookish and reserved, rather than boisterous and brawny. Hermione preferred him that way. So did Jean.

"Pish-Posh," he waved away, flexing a muscle playfully, "I can figure out some way to scare the poor chap, can't I? I'm resourceful enough. Scrawny, but resourceful—creativity is far more lethal than capability for violence, they say."

"Hmph," Jean glared, " _You_ say does not mean _they_ say."

"Well, I say—"

She gave Hermione an apologetic expression, "He's got an itching for a speech, I'd wager. Good luck, my darling—better him than me, am I right? You always were a Daddy's Girl."

Hermione made a dry laugh at Jean making fun of herself, to which her mother's expression became disturbed. She chose to ignore it and disappeared to go prepare for the dinner party.

Hogarth slowly approached his daughter, bushy-haired, lost in a sea of books. He carefully cleared way so he could sit beside her, and laid a hand on her shoulder to squeeze it gently. She managed to gaze at him for a minute, before tears began to well and she turned away from him to brood, glaring down at her book and its blissful pages.

"There's no Dean is there, My Own?"

"There is a Dean," she said to the pages of her books—books which had no feelings or expectations or worries. She could disappear in them. She needed to disappear in them. Just a little longer. She just need a little more time to heal… and to think.

And then she could face everyone else.

"But not in London, I suspect."

"I think he lives in London, but I don't remember, honestly," Hermione said.

Hogarth sighed, "You shouldn't lie to her."

"I know."

"What's done is done," he admitted, "She'll be suspicious if you don't go."

"That was the point."

"Hermione—I stand with your mother on this. I trust you to make good, informed decisions and I won't hover around waiting for you to please me by making the right choices. You have a good head on your shoulders, but you also have a good heart and that can make things ruddy confusing, especially at your age. If someone can't see you for what you are and love you, then—"

"Dad," she interrupted, knowing it was only going to make her feel worse, "It's not… It's not like that. It's me. I'm the one who broke it off."

"Oh," he said, "Did he hurt you?"

"No! It's not… he just—he's _Bulgarian_."

Hogarth's face twisted, "Is that a colloquialism?"

"No. He's _literally_ Bulgarian."

"Ah, and that's… er, bad?"

Hermione ruffled the comfortable cotton pants she was wearing, "Remember, I wrote you about the international competition?"

"Those owls don't take well to your mother and me, you know that. We got the gist of it, I think."

Hermione frowned. She did know. It was very difficult to communicate with her parents. Sometimes it was a blessing… other times, it was a curse.

"Well, he was one of the visiting students. We went to the ball together—the one over Christmas— and dated after, sort of."

"Sort of?"

Hermione blushed slightly and she noticed her father looked slightly away. He did not chastise her, merely… looked away.

"Anyway, it just didn't work out, with the distance… for me, at least. He asked me to visit for the summer and I declined, because I knew—"

" _Oh_ ," Hogarth said, "Oh, so he's…"

"In Bulgaria," Hermione said morosely, "It's… over."

Because of Dumbledore. And that's what made her so bloody melancholy. Not Viktor, not even really herself—but Dumbledore.

It was as if her entire view of the world had been shattered with the revelation that he was not, indeed, as pure as he might let on.

"There's plenty more blokes to woo with your beauty and brilliance, Hermione—although I'd much prefer you were a spinster for the rest of your life, I can't expect every one of them to be blind _and_ stupid."

"Are you sure?" Hermione blew her hair out of her face, "Mum would _much_ prefer the opposite, you know. She wants everyone to notice me."

"Well, your mum is an odd duck, isn't she?"

She couldn't help but smile. Her mum was an odd one. As much as she irritated Hermione, the witch knew her mother had good intentions—she just wanted Hermione to have the life she hadn't had, to refrain from making the same mistakes. She'd been so devoted to her studies, to her work, that she'd missed out on adventures she'd never thought she had wanted for herself, that she had lost loved ones whom she hadn't given enough love. It was her wish that Hermione be less inclined.

Unfortunately, she was her mother's daughter. She sobbed a little, surprising herself.

Her dad didn't flinch away, only pulled her hair away from her face and untangle a few of the curls as he did so, "In ten years, when you are a super fantastic, erm, witch, with a career and a life that you want, you probably won't even remember this Bulgarian, Hermione… is he worth all this punishment you're putting yourself through?"

Hermione sniffled slightly, "Maybe."

"Okay, well, then… if he is, then do you think he would want you to feel like this? Would he want you to waste your days clouded in misery and old books?"

She could feel her guts twist. Gods, how she wanted to just… spill everything to him. Her dad would understand. He would—he really would. But he would keep her from doing what was right, out of a need to protect her. As much as he had taught her to be good and kind and _just_ , he loved her too much.

If only he were a wizard, too, it might have been easier. But he was a Muggle, and she wouldn't change that for the world, even if it meant he couldn't understand why she did what she did. She only hoped it didn't get so bad where one day she would have to worry about him, too.

He would never understand why she would choose magic over anything else, even her own life, perhaps.

"Probably not—the misery part at least."

"Then chin up, darling," her father said cheerfully, leaning down to do so manually, "As your mother would say: you'll get lost in that hair of yours if you hide behind it all day… if you aren't already lost in a book, that is."

Hermione rolled her eyes, smoothing her hair self-consciously.

"Go on, get ready—pick up your books before she has a stroke," he urged gently, "I'll keep your mum away from the garden. Just around the fence, like old times?"

Hermione laughed. She'd often escaped there as a child, after failing to go off and make friends like Jean had desperately wanted her to. The same rude children who were now teenagers offering her invitations to house parties had excluded her to that shady corner for many years. Her father knew of it and had fetched her, sometimes crying, from it many times.

Her mother did not know of it—she always seemed to miss it when Hermione went running off to escape her suffocating need to involve her in as many activities as was possible. Looking back, Hermione had probably shielded herself with magic to hide from her. When it came down to it, however, her father could always find her—magic or not. At least there was someone who could see her, still. But if her father knew why she was truly hiding, could he forgive her?

He stood and headed to the threshold, but stopped to say, "I love you, My Own."

It was so mundane, so normal, that she couldn't help but sag with relief.

"Oh, Dad," she muttered, before shoving the book off her lap and running towards him, throwing her arms around him, "I love you, too!"

If she was ever given the chance to explain, she thought he might just forgive her.

·

"We need a firmer hand on the girl, Severus. You will be that firm hand."

The potions master hissed. Inwardly, he was growing tired of his outrageous commands and wanted to hex the old fool out the window, "You want her protected? Give her to someone else—anyone else."

"Protection is the exact opposite of what she needs," the headmaster muttered, "I need to protect the others from her, Severus."

Severus rolled his eyes, "What danger could Granger possible be?"

Gods above him, this was going to be the most hellish summer of his life. And he would make that damnable girl pay for it, too… or would have, if Albus wasn't being a complete fool.

"You underestimate her. She doesn't need a confidante, she needs a handler—someone who will make sure she does what is expected of her. You are the only one I can trust to master her, Severus."

He spoke of her as if she were an unbroken horse, rather than a child under his care; as if he were a despot and she she were conspiring to overthrow him, "Do you know what the dark lord will do to her if they find out she's been meddling with time? Now you want to put her under me? You've practically signed her up for a life of torture, or, Merlin forbidding, a life on the run."

"Miss Granger isn't a runner, hence why she wears the turner. Besides, she is a target already, whether by my design or Tom's."

The potions master rubbed his face with his hands, glaring out towards the window rather than at the headmaster. Once upon a time, he might have called this man a friend. The minute Harry Potter stepped through the entrance of Hogwarts, however, the wizard had grown more and more tedious, "What will it be, Severus? Will you handle her, or Obliviate her?"

"Obliviate?"

"Either she continues her service to Harry, or you will wipe her memory—clean. No magic. No Hogwarts."

"Merlin—fuck, is that necessary? I hardly think—"

"This discussion is trivial, Severus. I cannot afford to explain to you why, nor should it be necessary."

"She is a _child,_ Albus."

They both knew it to be a lie, but it was the only way he could hope to ignite the headmaster's dying conscience.

"Be that as it may, Miss Granger's devotion is at a crossroads and without her, this war will end very badly. She will no longer do what I say without questioning it: I need you to convince her that I am trustworthy once more."

"And how, pray tell, am I to do that?"

"Must you make me spell it out for you, Severus?" the headmaster said, "You're an intelligent wizard. Figure it out."

"Merlin—she's a girl, Albus! What could she possibly do to deserve this scrutiny?"

"She is more than what she seems," the headmaster told her, "Why must you always question me?"

"Don't I have a right to know why I am to take advantage of a seemingly innocent, if annoying young woman?"

"Orchestrating Tom's demise is a burden I wish I could share with you, believe me, but it is one that I bear alone for many reasons, least of all your precarious position in his circle. You must trust me, Severus. We need her on our side, or she will ruin us all."

"Headmaster—"

"I am not in the mood to argue with you, Severus."

"But Albus, surely you understand my hesitation."

"You will retrieve Miss Granger and bring her to Grimmauld Place, where she will stay for the summer and where _you_ will make certain she is doing as she should be: watching over Harry. What about that should cause you hesitation?"

Severus gritted his teeth. What sort of thing did he think Granger was plotting in her Muggle home? While the headmaster might be suspicious enough to think the girl was contriving against him, already, he could see her for what she truly was: a young girl with emotions and hopes and… desires.

 _If only I could permanently delete the memory of her desires,_ he sighed. Krum's naked body was still vivid in his mind's eye...

He shuddered in mild disgust.

Perhaps that was why Albus thought she was dangerous: she was a human being, instead of a blank slate, as he was. The stubborn witch was not so easily moved along the chessboard by the headmaster's calculating fingers. And the wizard had resorted to threatening her. Now, he was turning to Severus for help, as if that would sway the girl... honestly, sometimes he wondered about the man.

Although he had hoped she would be a blind Gryffindor, bound by duty, she was proving headstrong, or so the headmaster claimed. The young witch might not have gone against his word and turned back, but the notion that she had _wanted_ to was enough for Albus to worry about her intentions and her role in the future.

What bothered Severus, however, was why did her involvement matter so much?

Severus was silent as he contemplated. He had endured too many instances of this wizard pilfering through his memories to protect Lily. In the end, it had served her no justice, nor him. Just so, he had been in his head long enough to know just how to piss him off, and how to silence him: holding his past crimes against him was his favorite, along with scrounging up reasons to bring up Lily in conversation, and tasking him with her rescuing son at every turn.

Albus grew impatient.

"Would you prefer I offered her to Black, instead?"

 _Merlin's fucking beard. She wasn't a toy to be tossed between men!_

While he was certain he could sway her without taking advantage of her, he did not think Black was capable of doing the same.

"That won't be necessary."

The blue eyes narrowed, "Good. She will be your responsibility from now on. Is that clear?"

"Crystalline," the dark wizard uttered, drawling it out like a curse.

"Do be courteous, of course. There's no need for her parents to be alarmed."

Severus was of a different countenance: her parents had every right to be alarmed. But he could do nothing, however, to warn them—at least not outright. He could only hope they would be wary of him and demand that he stay away from their daughter.

With a grim expression, he left the headmaster's office, the slip of parchment bearing the address of the Order safe house tucked in his pocket. He would have to stop by Spinner's to retrieve some old Muggle clothes.

Not an hour later, he rolled his eyes at the large brownstone that was the Granger residence. She was, of course, from a well to do family, as had been evident in her choice of clothing and manner of speech when she arrived at the school. While it was not as glamorous as the manor of the Malfoys, it was far finer than anything he had ever lived in.

Barely containing his sneer, he knocked and waited.

When the door opened, the woman who answered it—wearing pearls in her ears and a proper, primly cut dress— blanched almost visibly. The similarities to her daughter were lost on her. Mrs. Granger's hair was fairer, far from wild, sleek and easily tamed into a French twist. Her coloring was nowhere near comparable to Hermione's, and she wore her posture stiffer and straighter and was inches taller, "Hello?"

She covered up her displeasure at his appearance with a polite smile. Severus was accustomed to wariness when others faced him and was not bothered by it.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening," he said coolly, "My name is Severus Snape. I am a professor at Hogwarts School of—"

"Oh," she said, realization dawning, " _Oh_."

"I was hoping to speak with you."

"Is Hermione in trouble, then?"

Her brow furrowed and she seemed to sigh—it surprised him, actually. Did Granger often get in trouble while at home, as often as she did at school? Perhaps Potter wasn't the sole instigator, after all.

"No," he lied coolly, "But I must insist that I do speak with you both urgently."

Her eyes glared into his, "I'm sorry, Mr. Snape—Hermione is not here."

"No?"

The woman frowned, "No, she's in the city. Perhaps another time?"

He felt a smile tug at his lips. He had cast the spell to find the witch when he had arrived, to make certain his trip was not in vain and also to make sure he had not been followed by any unsavory characters, Order or Death Eater. The young witch was in a near proximity—just outside the bounds of the house where she lived. Without even using magic, he could tell her mother wasn't lying. She truly thought her daughter was far off. But when he looked into her eyes, however, and, thus, into her mind… there was a dullness in her memory: a fog. Someone had tampered with it: a very, very long time ago.

 _Interesting._

"I'm willing to wait."

"I don't—"

"Jean," a man appeared, square-jawed. He was not very tall, nor was he short—about the same height as his wife. His hair was combed and cropped, and he wore nice trousers and a jumper over a button-down. His glasses were designer. Despite his posh exterior, Severus did not immediately dislike him. Unlike his wife, his face did not reveal any passing judgement, or any emotion at all, really. He could see that Hermione did not take after her father, either, except in demeanor: he was more relaxed than his wife, with an easy gait that was not unlike the girl's. His blue eyes were steady and Severus met them, he was struck with how alike they were to his daughter's: not in shape or color, but the soul of them, "Who is this, then?"

"Professor…"

She floundered.

"Snape," he corrected, "Severus Snape, of Hogwarts School."

"One of Hermione's teachers, then? Well, come in, Professor, come in," he said, gently pulling his wife from the threshold to invite him in, "Would you care for some dinner?"

"That won't be necessary," Severus replied. The idea of eating dinner with Granger's Muggle parents seemed far too domesticated for his tastes.

"We have guests," the woman suddenly said, remembering—saying almost as if it were a warning. As if he would hex them when he saw them, "What if they see him?"

He smirked when her husband rolled his eyes, "It's good thing he's not wearing a pointed hat and robes then, isn't it?"

"But—Hogarth—we've been planning this dinner for weeks!"

 _Hogarth?_

His name was worse than some wizarding ones, Severus noted with amusement.

"Oh, they were boring company anyway," the male Granger said, before meeting Severus gaze and gesturing towards the kitchen, "Will this be a casual or a formal affair, my friend?"

"Semi-formal," the professor answered, understanding the gist of his question: was he here for something minor or major? "I would advise your guests not be present for this conversation, considering..."

"Of course, of course," Hogarth admitted, glancing at his watch, "It won't take long to send them off. Coffee or tea while you wait?"

"Coffee would be… acceptable," the potions master admitted. Hogarth prepared the pot swiftly, silently, and Severus waited patiently in the kitchen for it to finish while the Grangers explained to their guests that there was a dental emergency that they needed to take care of. Dinner was off. Too-da-loo.

His eyes trailed along the decorative curtains, the place mats on the kitchenette table, and the neat rows of ceramic figures that lined the garden window, before he removed his jacket, wondering when Miss Granger would make her bushy-haired appearance known.

·

While Professor Snape lounged in the kitchen, Hermione sighed contentedly. From _her_ spot, she was hidden beneath a shade of leaves that shielded her from the dry heat of summer. The sunlight, darkly red as it drifted lower in the sky, allowed for just enough light to filter through that she could reading comfortably. All around her was the smell of dying grass, pungent but not quite so soothing as it was when it was full and green. It was a ghost of the smell which had so fueled her childhood.

For a moment, she sought out the memory, and it allowed her to forget who she was, why she was there, why she was hiding from her own thoughts. Viktor could not plague her here. Although he would forever be remembered in the Hogwarts library, this place… this place was hers and hers alone.

For nearly an hour, she hid beneath the shade of a tree that drooped over the edge of her parent's property. Then—then… she felt strangely, as if the wind blew heavier, or the sun shined darker. Her hair stood on end. Her fingers itched. If she hadn't known better, she might have said the time turner around her neck grew warm.

She stood up without pause, dropping her book as she did so, and grabbed her wand. She ran, as fast as she could, to the house, knowing…

At the sight of Professor Snape standing, sipping from a mug, the spell on her lips died. She skidded to a stop, nearly toppling over in her haste. Her fingers held her wand steady, however, trained right at his crooked, beak of a nose, and she was glad that her parents' guests were nowhere to be found. She had half a mind to hex him anyway... he deserved it, out of anyone she knew. But no spell left her lips.

As she leaned offensively towards him, wavering between action and stunned silence, her mother sent her a seething look over her shoulder, but it was not one of contempt or irritation, but of worry. She'd been washing the plates that they had, from the looks of it, been unable to use. Jean's worry deepened and she hesitated at the sight of the wand in her daughter's hand. Her husband instinctively stepped forward, words of discouragement on his lips.

Hermione refused to look at him and felt her face tightening into a scowl that could rival the potions master's, "What are _you_ doing here?"

Snape spared a greeting in the form of quirking one dark, thick brow. It was disturbing how comfortably he wore Muggle clothing: a crisp white shirt (honestly, it was actually rather yellowed, but seemed blazingly white as she had never seen him wear anything but black) that hugged a body far too thin to be healthy, tucked into belted trousers made of fine, if worn, dark gray linen. It was too hot for a jacket, it seemed, as his was removed and draped over the back of a dining room chair—casually. How long had he been here, that he had made himself comfortable?

And what exactly was he doing here, anyway?

"Granger," he greeted, nodding towards her wand calmly. He wasn't afraid of her.

 _Scrawny, arrogant bastard!_

"Snape," she snipped, dropping his title, as she never had before. Ron and Harry would be so angry they missed it.

As if sensing the sentiment of disobedience, his face turned slightly murderous.

" _Hermione_ ," her father began to say, his eyes trained on the wand in her hand to the darkening expression of their guest. He grew quiet when her eyes flew frantically to his, willing him to let her handle it. This was her world, not his.

For the first time, she thought he might be scared to see her wield it—and she wondered if she would be wrong about his forgiveness. In the end, could he ever understand her, ever understand why she was who she was, and why she hid that person from him?

"I have been sent by the headmaster to collect you," Snape hissed through clenched teeth, obviously irritated by her dallying, "It is his… wish that you board at a safe house this summer."

"Why should I trust that's the truth?"

"You shouldn't," the man said with a sneer, "But you have little choice in the matter, now, do you?"

Hermione was no longer at Hogwarts. This was her house, her domain—and he was risking her wrath by alerting her parents to what was going on. She wasn't exactly helping in that matter, but if she had to fight him to protect them she would, "How do I know it is really you, then?"

He glanced towards her father, who was watching them with an expression of apprehension, although maintaining a calm demeanor, "In your first year, I believe I gave you the worst grade of your life—an Acceptable."

Hermione glared at him, _fucking git._ Not so long ago, she'd wanted to be kind to him—well, that was before he'd taken liberties with her mind and now was _teasing_ her. She kept his gaze, half-daring him to enter her thoughts, although she knew he would not dare, not again.

She did not lower her wand, "Anyone at Hogwarts could have known _that_ story. I appealed to the headmaster for weeks to overturn that grade! It's practically a matter of public record."

"To no avail, if I recall correctly. It mars your record still."

"I deserved an Outstanding for that potion!"

She lifted her wand higher, a warning.

"That remains to be seen..." his eyes burned holes into the wall above her head when she did not relent, "For Merlin's— _fine._ In your third year, I saved you and your rotten friends from a flea-ridden werewolf by the name of Remus sodding Lupin. Is that proficient proof for you, impetuous girl?"

Jean dropped the plate and it shattered into the sink, "A flea-ridden _what?_ "

"Oh, _now,_ you've done it!" Hermione hissed towards him, finally dropping her wand, although she narrowly refrained from hexing him blind.

"WEREWOLF? A WEREWOLF, HERMIONE!"

Her mother lifted her hands to her mouth, swallowing a shrill shriek of horror.

"Mrs. Granger—" Her professor began to say, his expression smoothing into a blank, placid one of mild politeness. He hoped to find reason with her parents…

Hermione smirked at his very false assumption and for his foolish, foolish mistake. Her mother hated it when people called her 'Mrs.', even when they could not have known the difference.

"DOCTOR. DOCTOR Granger," her mother bellowed at Snape, who looked slightly startled—perhaps the first time she had ever seen such an expression on his face—her mother softened slightly, for propriety's sake more than anything else, "I am a _doctor_ , no thanks to you and several thanks to myself for enduring numerous years of mind-numbing post-secondary education to earn the damn title!"

"The apple doesn't fall very far, does it?" Snape muttered.

If he was a less observant man, her father would have laughed. But Hogarth was looking at his daughter as if he had never seen her before.

Jean seemed torn between yelling at Snape and pretending she hadn't seen him. Instead, she spun on her daughter, " _Werewolves_? _WEREWOLVES_? You never said anything about werewolves, Hermione! At _school_?"

Feeling rebellious, Hermione muttered, "I never said anything about vampires or dragons, either—"

Jean Granger paled slightly at the mention of dragons: she was deathly afraid of reptiles—the idea that somewhere, out there, a dragon was flying around would have be unnerving for her. Hogarth grimaced when she floundered for words, struck with fear, and Hermione looked away, knowing that was a mistake she would regret later.

Her father had known about werewolves, because he'd been paying attention that first day, that day when McGonagall had told her what she was. It had taken her mother two years to get accustomed to the idea of her daughter being a witch—it would take centuries for her to accept werewolves as fact, too.

And a million more for her to not think about dragons every time she left the house.

Suddenly remembering, her mother scanned the surrounding area, "Where's Dean? Aren't you supposed to be in London for the night?—no wands in the kitchen, young lady—Why are your pants covered in dirt? Please don't tell me you went on a date looking like that!"

Hermione felt her face flush when her professor's eyes crept over towards her, his face being drawn into a smug expression that made her want to hex him.

"Mum—"

" _What is going on, Hermione?"_

The witch looked to her father, for his never-ending stream of support, but his face was stonier than Professor Snape's. She glanced to the potions master—vainly, as he was perfectly content to let her struggle. When she kept looking at him, she made a pointed look with her face, drawing his dark eyes to hers.

His sharp, angular features contorted, before his eyes grew far more magnetizing. His entrance into her mind was fluid, gentle even.

 _Help me,_ she pleaded.

 _Help yourself._

Her temples itched when he spoke into her mind and she wrinkled her nose at him. The sneer he wore in response was primeval, and she cursed his greasy head for being so difficult and unhelpful.

"Mum, Dad…" she began to say, unsure of where to start, "I don't know what to say, really."

"It's always best to start with the truth, isn't it?" Her father said.

She felt a stab of guilt when his eyes drew away from her coldly.

Her mother wrung her hands, "Professor Snape says you're in danger."

Hermione flashed him a furious glare. He seemed unremoved by it and merely plucked invisible lint from his cuff.

She lowered her voice and tried to sound calm, "I… perhaps. I admit, there's some things I haven't told you about—"

Jean interrupted, sensing this was going to be a long conversation, "Shall we sit?"

Hermione shrugged, "You might need to—I, Mum… it's not that I haven't tried—"

"More coffee?" Her mother was avoiding the conversation, despite having cornered her into it. She spoke towards Severus, as if she hadn't just screeched at him, brown eyes full of worry. Hogarth, beside her, stared out the window, brooding.

The potions master declined with a terse shake of his head.

" _Mum,"_ she said, a slight whine.

Jean grabbed her husband's arm and tugged him towards the table, foregoing the tea she'd been preparing altogether and replacing it with coffee. He shrugged her off, crossing his arms to watch his daughter with a blank expression, choosing to stand behind his sitting wife rather than take a seat himself.

"It's nothing to worry about, _really_ ," Hermione lied, as smoothly as she could, "But, er, I've agreed to help Harry this summer—"

"Harry? Help him with what?"

Professor Snape seemed uncomfortable, then, and he slunk towards the entryway, pulling his wand from a hiding place she could not discern—perhaps his sleeve. Hermione watched him warily, and tried to find the words, and wove a tale she thought they would accept.

When he cast a protective spell, she felt her gut clench slightly. She hadn't thought about her parents needing protection. What if her being there, with them, was dangerous?

Had her actions put them at risk?

"It all started with Harry, when he was a baby…"

She ignored Snape's snort from the dining room and continued.

·

"Dean Thomas, Miss Granger? That's a rather sudden change of _heart,_ isn't it?"

Hermione jumped at the sound of Professor Snape's voice, instinctively reaching for her wand.

When she turned to him, she bowed her head. Her face was still sort of puffy and red from crying—she'd argued with her parents for nearly two hours before they had agreed to let her go off with Professor Snape. He'd hardly been any help in convincing them to feel comfortable with it. The looming man (when he felt it pertinent to be present) merely kept repeating that Dumbledore required her and so he would bring her to the 'safe house', quickly if she could manage it.

The half-truths Hermione had told had nearly undone at the word 'safe-house'—and again when her mother had inquired to what the man was doing with his wand. He had answered that he was warding the perimeter against wizards, to which both Jean and Hermione had begun to cry.

It was almost as if Snape wanted her parents to make this difficult for her. She could only assume he was punishing her for being friends with Harry, or for setting him on fire, or perhaps for stealing from his stores in second year. Maybe, maybe he was just so miserable he enjoyed making his students' lives hell.

 _How could you ever possibly imagine being nice to him?_

She ignored his pestering question, shoving an armful of her underclothes into the trunk when she realized they were still in her arms. Feeling her cheeks pink at the thought that he had even seen them at all, she shoved a bunch of jumpers on top of them for good measure. In the distance, she could hear her parents talking heatedly, still arguing about letting her go.

"You can't possibly be fighting this, Hogarth! They can protect her!"

"Protect her? They're the ones who got her in this mess!"

"It's not their fault—"

"A school for wizards—how could we have been so stupid to let her go—"

"You were the one who wanted it for her—"

"Don't you dare! We both knew she was different from the moment she was born! To deny this of her would have been…"

"Worse? Nothing can be worse than this! Our baby… oh, Hogarth. We can't do anything to help her, can we? What else can we do, but let her go?"

Their voices died and Hermione knew they had come to a consensus. They were accepting what they needed to: that she needed to join the others.

Surprisingly, her father wanted her to stay—her mother wanted her to leave. How could the tables have turned so quickly?

The potions master sneered at her, "He was a suitor even Trelawney could not have wished upon you. Then again… no amount of Divination could ever predict you would be fool enough to fall for that oaf of a Bulgarian, either."

Oaf? _Oaf?_ Viktor was more of a man than Snape could ever be!

"My personal life is none of your business, _Professor_."

"On the contrary: your love life has been front page news for weeks, at least until Potter stole the spotlight from you. It's _everyone's_ business." He continued to prod at her injured pride, "And _everyone's_ dying to know, Granger: is it Potter or Krum that's stolen your heart? If I didn't have _firsthand_ knowledge, I would be asking myself the same question..."

 _How could I ever want to be nice to him?_

At her silence, he clucked his tongue, "How disappointed Skeeter will be to know it's Dean Nobody Thomas, instead. Mr. Krum will be heartbroken, I'm sure. Well, more heartbroken than he already is."

"Oh, shut _UP_ , will you?"

Hermione did not want to talk about Viktor Krum with Snape—Snape, who had all but plucked every single one of the memories of her limited sexual experience from her mind. She didn't need him to stir up the emotions she hadn't been able to swallow for two weeks, plus the time she'd spent turning.

" _Touchy_ subject, Miss Granger? _Tsk_ , _tsk_. I never took you for such a tactile learner, but I digress."

"How dare you!" She threw up her hands, "First, you—you rifle through my memories like pages of a book, then you shove them in my face like, like—"

"You invited me in, girl," he reminded her, making it a point to step into her bedroom as he did so, although his nose pinched up at the books she had begun to organize in stacks around her trunk.

"You had no right to take all of—"

"Contrary to popular belief, it is not so easy to break from someone's mind when they've literally pulled you into it— _especially_ not when they keep you there against _your_ will out of sheer need to prove a bloody point," he snapped at her, "Trust me, Granger, it was not a pleasant experience for either of us. I advise you to consider that fact the next time you _proposition_ someone in such a way."

She glared at him, but felt like a fool: had she truly done it to herself? She didn't know whether to trust his word or spit on it.

Eventually, his smirk deepened into a scowl, "Not that it matters, but I've omitted what I can. Consider yourself fortunate in my graciously preserving your… modesty, if you could call it as such."

"You omitted… but you would need someone to—"

"The headmaster was happy to oblige me."

Hermione stopped shuffling through her clothes, and turned. The headmaster had… her face melted into one of mortification, before she promptly burst into tears.

Would she ever be free of his meddling?

Snape allowed her a moment to cry into her hands, only, before she heard him sniff indignantly, " _Fucking_ _hell_."

She lifted her face from her hands, her sob turning into a sour frown. He stood stiffly in the center of her room, looking out of place even with his Muggle trousers and shirt and jacket. The look on his face was remorseless, cold and unfeeling, except for a gritting, irritated mouth and rolling eyes.

"Pull yourself together, Granger—I don't have all summer for these endless hormonal roller-coasters of yours. At this rate you'll have three before you make it down the stairs."

She choked down the next wail at that and spat, "You're a _bastard_."

"I never claimed otherwise, but it might behoove you to know that in the literal sense I am not, indeed, a bastard," he admitted, although his face seemed solemn when he said so, "And I am still your professor, Granger."

"Oh, my apologies. You're a bastard— _figuratively_ speaking, of course, _sir._ How rude of me not to _specify_!"

He let out a barking, bitter laugh which startled her slightly. She closed her eyes and sighed, trying to reign in the emotions that had escaped her in his presence for what seemed like the umpteenth time in three hours. The sound of his chortle echoed in her brain, puncturing her temple in that way his mind had when he'd pilfered through it.

 _What a mess you've made, Hermione—a right mess._

She tried to gather the rest of her things, but must have been too slow for the potions master's liking. With a wave of wand, the rest of her belongings began to pile in her trunk, shrinking as they did so. When it was all finished—far quicker than she could have ever managed without magic—Hermione stood in her room, looking around at all of her stuffed animals (few that there were), the books of her childhood (far more than any other child she had known) and the bright yellow bedspread and matching curtains that she had chosen when she was twelve years old. The tears dried on her cheek as she did so, feeling quite unable to leave it just yet.

The room was still rather full, even with all of her magical belongings gone. Many of her books, novels, were left behind, as well as the artifacts of a younger, more innocent girl. There were science kits, unopened, stacked in her closet, a trunk full of dress-up clothes (even she was prone to such things as a young girl), and a drawer on which sat a novelty lamp in the shape of a moon, filled with crystalline beads in all sorts of colors.

For the first time, she realized that this was the room of a little girl… a little girl she hardly recognized anymore: who preferred bright yellow to soft, subtle blue; whose favorite book was _Les Miserables_ rather than _Hogwarts: A History_ ; who would have given anything for a friend, rather than risk everything to protect one. Who had thought life would be wondrous rather than… messy.

Rubbing the salty tears from her cheeks, knowing that she could only move forward (unless she used the time turner) she bid the room, and her innocence, goodbye.

In her haste and silent anger, she did not see the potions master look into the room wearing a small, weary frown, nor did she see him touch a hesitant fingertip to the worn cover of a book, _Unclouding the Mind_ , where she had tossed in on the wingback chair beside her door after arriving..

He shrunk and pocketed the book and took his time in following after her.

·

Hogarth traced his hands over his wife's shoulders, trying to quell the shaking that the events had caused her to suffer from. She was not an emotional woman, Jean, but where it concerned their daughter, she could feel very deeply, too deeply, to the point of mania. Her need for perfection, for clarity and logic, warred with her desire to protect her daughter, her desire for her happiness and wellness, and it did her body no good in the process.

She wanted the best for her, just as he did, but was not so certain how to achieve that as he was. The most logical thing to do would be to keep her with them, always, but that was not a healthy thing to offer a child. A growing girl needed independence.

Jean wanted her daughter to be well-raised, but above all, she wanted her safe. And what hope could they have to protect her from wizards who wanted her and her friends dead?

While he knew she thought going with this man, this Professor Snape, would benefit Hermione, Hogarth was more attune to his instincts than she was. He did not think this was good for his daughter—not after seeing her lift her wand against him. The dentist had seen the anger on her face when she looked at him, the twisting frown that he had never seen worn on her delicate, sunny features in all his life. This was not the daughter he remembered, young, happy, and innocent, but a young woman who was prepared to… well, hex the man who claimed to be her teacher. No, she was a witch who would delve into a fight, even with her father's eyes upon him, if it meant there was danger that threatened him.

Jean believed her fibs—she thought that Harry was in danger because of his being famous in their world and that because Hermione was his friend that she wanted to be there for him during a trying time. Hogarth, however, knew his daughter better. Just like he had known that she was lying about Dean Thomas, he knew she was keeping things from them. She was careful to fret them with truths, but he knew them as what they were. Professor Snape said nothing to deter her, but his explanation had been far more resounding in validity than hers.

She'd told them so many lies, that he knew. How many more had she fed them in the past? How many would she spare them in the future?

"Hermione," he said when she appeared, looking determined. He tried to sound reasonable, but his voice betrayed him. It was harsher than he wanted it to be. He was displeased and he wanted her to know it. She should be disappointed in herself, for letting this get this far without their help. For not trusting them. For not trusting _him_.

Gone were the bright eyes of hope and excitement from the girl whose greatest dreams were coming true. In their place was a deep, careworn gaze, full of knowledge that she should not yet have, burdened by duty, and they fell when they met his, guiltily looking to her feet like a child.

"I'm sorry this is so sudden—I didn't realize," she began to say. They had agreed to let her go, but he was still reluctant. She was preparing for another fight.

"It's alright," Jean managed, "Harry needs you. We understand that this is for the best, for your safety."

His daughter's eyes flitted to the floor and he knew she was thinking: _No_ , _you don't understand. You don't and you can't._

Would they ever understand her world? How much of it was different—or the same—as theirs?

She seemed willing to leave knowing he was angry with her and nodded. She set her shoulders, preparing to turn, "I have to go."

Knowing his daughter, she would do this with or without his permission. The world that had swayed her away from them had its hooks in her, and by the expression of her pallid professor, she doubted they would let her out of their reach for very long.

She knew it, too. This was more than just a Bulgarian. His daughter had never been one for wantonness, for yearning and moping over base things like relationships—how could he not have seen it—that she was no longer a child, but a woman, who could see the world for what it was? She was still so young, young enough that she would need time to adjust to the change… but not so young that she would fight against it, as another teenager might have.

Wanting nothing more than to pull her close and shield her from the world, he found his voice and said, "No hug good-bye for your old dad?"

Those eyes of hers, golden and liquid, lifted to his and he could see relief sag her shoulders. No matter what she did, he would always be proud of her. For some unknown reason, he knew he should feel proud of her even then, proud that she was his: for whatever she was doing, she was doing it for the right reasons. It didn't make him think she was any safer, but it made him glad that he could raise a decent human being, who would do what was right rather than what was easy.

She fell into his arms, much like she had as a child, falling until she stumbled and he could and would catch her, as he always had. With steady hands, he lifted her close, burying his face in her bushy, unkempt hair and breathing in the scent of her. His daughter smelt like grass and books and, briefly, he remembered the smell of her when she was only a handful of limbs and a tender, precious skull with tufts of brown hair. She'd been soft and new, so terribly vulnerable.

Her limbs were stronger, she was taller and broader, but she was still his baby girl. A father's love was never easy—never—and it could not be forgotten from the moment they held such a package in their arms and knew, knew they were the ones who had helped created a life. It was their job to make certain that life was protected and respected, and loved.

As he clung to the memory of their daughter, Jean's arms looped around him so that her fingers grabbed at Hermione's shirt, adding scents of jasmine and mint to the grass and parchment. For a second, they were a unit, a family—and even though they would be parted, they could not be taken from each other. Not really.

When he lifted his face from Hermione's hair, his eyes locked with the obsidian black of the tall, unhandsome man across from him. Perhaps that was unkind of him to think, considering his downtrodden looks were the products of poor hygiene… mostly. The large, crooked nose was irremovable from his face, but given a good head-washing and a wealthy amount of dental work, the man could be striking, if not warm-bloodedly fair.

Just standing there, he looked out of place. His clothes were normal—Muggle, Hogarth corrected—but underneath them he was skin and muscle and magic. His form was tall, slender, lending him an advantage of being underestimated, considering he was more bone than flesh. Of course, he seemed uncomfortable when he entered, obviously intruding on a tender moment, and his features twisted into a disapproving frown.

If one truly looked, beyond the instinctual reactions, there was something dangerous about him—some sort of power that Hogarth doubted he would ever understand. If that sort of man was there to protect his daughter, then he should have felt uneasy, but there was more to the dark figure in the threshold than others would see at first glance: dignity, he imagined, despite his outward appearance, and integrity, although it would hide beneath biting words and seething glares. While he had feigned irritation with Hermione, he could tell by his movements and his posture that he was prepared to protect her from harm, to deflect danger from her.

Just by the way his eyes trailed over every inch of their house, inspecting it for weakness, while weaving magic into the structure, Hogarth knew this Snape was honor-bound to protect her. Whether it was on orders from the headmaster—whom he seemed to serve in more of a capacity than a mere employee—or because he cared, Hogarth was unsure. But he did not question it, knowing that Hermione would be safe wandering into the depths of hell, so long as this dark wizard was escorting her.

When dark eyes kept to his, he silently asked the man to protect his daughter, to keep her from harm—to use his darkness as a weapon of something lighter, and kinder, with a purpose that could spare Hogarth and his wife great heartaches. The man's face was stony, unmoving, but when he dropped his gaze he gave the barest of nods in agreement.

It was only then that Hogarth could release his daughter, and hope that it would be enough to keep her whole for a little while longer.

"Be good, Hermione. I love you."

She nodded, "I love you, too, Dad."

And then she was gone and his heart was all the heavier without her.


	3. Chapter 3

_Playlist: Your Bones - Of Monsters and Men, In the Sun - Joseph Arthur, Soundcheck - Catfish and the Bottleman, White Blank Page - Mumford and Suns,_ ** _Don't Let Me Down - The Chainsmokers._**

·

Chapter Three

·

"Nothing can be sadder or more profound than to see a thousand things for the first and last time."  
Victor Hugo, _Les Misérables_

 _·_

As she breathed in the evening air, Hermione clung to the sounds which it carried: there was faint, bubbly laughter from the yard next door; around the corner was the tumultuous motions of a car fumbling to start. Music rose from the speakers of a radio, through a window opened across the street—a pop song she'd heard not two days before. More distant than the others, a baby cried, and two dogs barked in chorus. The young witch swore she could also hear a lawn mower going, but the sun had fallen too long ago for that to be the case…

Regardless, these were the mundane melodies of a summer she would not have: a summer that the daughter of two Muggle dentists would have enjoyed, eventually, given the time needed for her melancholy to fade, or heal, whichever came first.

Given the chance to turn back time longer than ten hours, she would have chosen to try harder to please her mother. But although she wore a time turner around her neck and badly wanted to turn back and change her mind about going, she wouldn't. It was fairly clear, besides, that there would be no room for negotiation; the headmaster had not given her a choice.

At this point, Dumbledore didn't have anything else to hold over her head, besides her Gryffindor honor and Harry's life. Had her parents resisted more, she did not doubt they would have eventually been convinced with nefarious means—by false promises, confounding magic or… she dared not think of anything more heinous. If _she_ had resisted, would Snape have forced her, or would he have been instructed to Obliviate her? Without any other chips, perhaps he could threaten her well-being, or her parents'. Was he capable of violence? Worse yet, capable of violence towards one of the students he was sworn to protect and cherish? After Cedric, she thought he might be.

Flushing from the dark thoughts that plagued her and their brisk pace, Hermione trotted behind Snape. The quiet descended as they headed farther away from Granger House—even Crookshanks seemed to stop rustling in his enchanted carrier (far roomier than would be assumed to the glancing eye and light as a feather, too). Never one for silence, she found herself trying to fill it with questions.

"Where are we going, _exactly_ … sir?"

The potions master kept walking. His gait was determined and swift and she realized that he had more posture in his little finger than she ever did in her entire body. The hair which he wore was unfashionable in this world and maybe even the one they shared: for the first time, she realized it had grown longer than she remembered it ever being. Her eyes trailed from the tips of it, falling past his shoulders, down his narrow back. Although he had, almost absently, shoved it behind his ears sometime after arriving at her house, it threatened to hang loosely around his face.

Without the voluminous robes, his build was rather alarmingly emaciated. Even in Muggle clothes he was poised and stiff, unapproachable in his grim stature and countenance. As her eyes trimmed the jacket he wore, fashionably tailored to his ever narrow waist, it seemed to her that he had never particularly cared about his appearance, yet always carried himself with structure and dignity. Hermione cleared her throat, wondering if he had eaten as he had claimed or simply said it to appease her parents.

Thinking of them made her feel guilty and lonely, "My parents—"

He didn't even spare a glance backwards, but she could hear him sigh with irritation.

She huffed, "Will they be safe... _sir_?"

That gave the bat a slight pause. He slowed to allow her to catch up, and she was able to catch his dark eyes for the briefest of moments. They were set beneath dark, imposing brows which were hardly as thick as Viktor's. Opaque, yet slender, they lay flat and revealed nothing.

"For now," he intoned, "yes."

Hermione's eyes darted away from his. She chewed her lip, and focused on trying to keep up when he continued with determined fervor, "How will we get to this safe house… side-along apparition? Why must we walk?"

"Naturally," he drawled with a dry, bored roll of his eyes, "your neighborhood has been warded in order to preserve your parents' safety. We will have to walk a distance to disapparate to the Order safe house."

"Order? What Order?"

He seemed to walk even quicker to avoid her questions.

"But I thought Dumbledore sent you?"

The question was ignored with a soft, "Hm."

When they eventually reached a "distance"—and she only knew because the potions master stopped abruptly and turned into an alleyway where several cars were double parked, providing plenty of cover—she was a bit out of breath. For some reason she did not think the location or the cars were a coincidence. Briefly, she thought she saw a figure standing in a window of the nearby house, looking at them with a lifted hand in greeting. When she blinked they were gone.

Snape offered her his arm—the right and not the left. She stared at it, wary of the thin length of it, while juggling the cat carrier and her trunk. The latter was vanished away with a modest flick of the professor's wand (which was how she came to recall that he was left-handed and not right, like she was).

" _Wait_ —Crookshanks…?"

"I charmed the contraption while you were… _sharing_ details with your parents," the potions master drawled, his eyes narrowing at the widening of her eyes at the arguably kind action, "Even so, I suggest you hold your beasts' carrier tightly, unless you want him lost in the abyss or his parts scattered all over London."

Her mouth twisted at the thought. She grabbed hold of Crooks tightly, unconsciously doing the same of her professor's arm. Unsurprisingly, she had expected it to be an arm made of icy stone, stiff and unbending. To her surprise, his blood was as warm as hers was, slightly more so in the dry heat of the summer. Beneath the layers of clothing, he was all muscle and bone, but there was flesh, too, that was supple against her grip. In touching him, there was evidence that he was a breathing, living thing and not carved from granite or marble.

It did little to change her thoughts of him. Whether he was a breathing man or the Shade some rumored him to be, hot or cold, flesh or stone, to her he was still a beast, without a care or conviction that aligned with her own ideals.

"Do _not_ let go."

There was no other warning. Instantly, the magic yanked them through space and time. It was the first time she would feel such a way, having never ridden side-along before or apparating at all, actually. This form of travel was far more disorienting than the time turner, but less so than Floo. After they arrived, she gasped for breath, shivering at the sudden sensation of air on her skin once again. The trunk which Snape had sent along before them skidded to the ground beside them, having been delayed with the distance he had sent it. Crookshanks meowed, allowing her to be comforted that he was in one piece, too.

The dark wizard silenced the sound with a harsh sound of his teeth, then drew his dark eyes along the street in search of observant Muggles. Hermione could do nothing more than take a deep, steadying breath as he did so, and blink the world straight again.

Her escort began to lead her along, only barely allowing her to gather her wits. They entered a park through an open wrought iron gate, following a paved trail which wound beneath a canopy of trees. As they exited, Hermione thought she could feel eyes upon her and turned to peer through the night behind her. It was too dark, however, and Snape did not relent in his briskness to do the same, so she supposed she was just being overly paranoid.

Once they escaped the park, rounded two more lanes, and followed a slender road for what felt like a mile, they only halted when they stood before a street of townhouses, each with several floors of glittering, flat, rectangular windows. Snape did not allow her time to observe them properly, as he promptly procured a slip of paper from his pocket and offered it to her. Hermione was confused for a moment, but she took the paper, and read the lines.

 _The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

"The Order of—"

" _Quiet,_ " he hissed at her, grabbing her arm and pulling her forward, towards the house that had squeezed itself in between the others, "I know it must be difficult for you, but I implore you to think before you speak, or hold your tongue indefinitely."

While she should have expected such from Snape, she was growing extremely tired of his jabbing at her. The Gryffindor easily recalled another time, when Snape had grabbed her, leaving bruises in his wake. It was his hand that had physically prevented her from saving Cedric, as she should have and would have given his leave.

With a heaving sigh, she pried herself out of his arms and glared away from him, heading up the steps towards the "safe house". He filed in behind her with her trunk levitated beside him, standing closely, too closely for her liking. If she was such a bother to him, then he could just leave her to her own. Why bother with her if he hated her so? She'd rather face capture by death eaters than suffer one more second with him!

 _Bite your tongue._

More frustrated with herself than him, she grabbed the handle and twisted roughly. For a moment, she registered him warning her not to. To spite him, the Gryffindor pushed the door open too forcefully, sending it banging against the wall in pure spite of him.

"FILTHY BLOOD-TRAITORS! VILE HALF-BREEDS!"

Hermione froze at the sound. Snape pushed her through the threshold forcefully, neatly closing the door behind her with a curse darting from his lips. She shot him a venomous look, surprised at his language, but far less than she was of the words bellowed overhead.

"PESTS! MONGRELS! VERMIN!"

Hermione nearly tripped over her trunk. Crookshanks hissed from his carrier, and she could feel him pressing weight against the wall, trying to force himself out. She was reaching for her wand with her hand, but the weight of the carrier shifted, forcing her to drop it—

"HOW DARE YOU STAIN THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK WITH THE LIKES OF MUDBLOODS AND WEREWOLVES! FILTH! SCOURGES OF THE EARTH!"

The witch within the gilded if slightly moldy looking frame was red-faced and screeching. Snape seemed undisturbed by the display. He only stared at her with mild disgust on his face (which was a typical expression for him and thus she could assume he wasn't surprised as she was).

Beside his sneering form, Hermione crouched on the floor. The woman continued, but she was feeling too badly about Crookshanks to pay attention to the harsh words. Hastily, shaking fingers opened the carrier with soft cooing sounds. Her affections fell on deaf ears as the half-kneazle shot off like a bullet, an orange blur sliding against a dusky, stained wooden floor.

"AND YOU—YOU WRETCH— _TRAITOR_! FUMBLING COWARD! BESEECHER OF LIES!"

The potions master seethed at the portrait, but refrained from hexing it. Instead, he grabbed Hermione—by the elbow, this time, and not her arm—urging her upward and away from the hateful creature, down a long hallway, a distance from the entryway staircase. Just as Hermione was about to ask what was going on, where he had brought her, and why she should trust him at all, Molly Weasley appeared at the threshold of a kitchen. The redheaded matron wasn't paying attention, really, but was obviously irritated enough to emerge from her sanctuary to chastise someone, "Nymphadora, dear, that holder is in the same place where you left it last—oh!"

Her eyes flew between Snape to Hermione, back once and back again. The way she looked her up and down made the young witch uncomfortable, as if she were being evaluated from head to toe. When she noticed that Snape still held her arm, they darted away from each other. The professor skulked towards the dulled shrieks of the devil-woman's portrait, but only to cast a wordless spell that dulled the sound of her. It was not completely drowned out, but rather instead sounded as if he had placed a rubber bubble between them and it.

Mrs. Weasley seemed uncomfortable as she addressed Snape, who turned his attention, and his wand, back to her, "Severus, when did we first meet?"

"During the twins' first year, in the hospital wing," the potions master said tightly, "And for what reason?"

The redhead matriarch pinked a little, "The twins... er."

The potions master quirked a brow.

When Molly flushed and added a single, uttered word, "The incident with the stirring rods."

"Yes... the stirring rods," Snape bemused with a scowl, before lowering his wand from her and stepping further away from Hermione.

After Mrs. Weasley enveloped her in a crushing hug, she fretted over her mussed hair, "Hermione—we weren't expecting you for a few days."

"Hermione?" Ginny appeared through the same door her mother had emerged from, wearing a jumper and jeans, obviously compelled to modesty while at home that she did not similarly hold at Hogwarts. Her eyes widened at the sight of Snape, still in Muggle clothes, before they flew to Hermione's. The chocolate brown eyes of her only female friend seemed utterly relieved to see her and it made all of her despair at leaving her parents behind dissolve.

"Hey, Ginny," she said with a grateful smile. Seeing Harry would have only made her think about Cedric. Seeing Ginny, however, made her feel at ease.

The redhead wasted no time in running forward to hug her, "Please, Circe—tell me you're here for the summer?"

Hermione nodded her head. Ginny pulled away to do a little wiggling dance in the doorway, obviously glad to have another female in the house, "Hermione Jean Granger—oh, am I _glad_ you exist! Sweet Nimue, there has never been a more gorgeous, intelligent, brilliant witch ever to live. Honestly, I would have settled for Milicent Bulstrode at this rate, but you—you are one beautiful son of a—"

"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley hissed, " _Language."_

"— _Muggle_!"

"That is not appropriate, either, Ginevra!"

Hermione shook her head in bemusement—Mrs. Weasley thought she would be offended by the way her eyes darted to hers.

"Sorry, Mum, really, but how can you blame me? Ron's been driving me batty for a fortnight. There's only so many times I can play him at chess before I want to set the pawns to gauge his eyes out. I'm high off endorphins at the presence of someone with a uterus—besides you, of course… and Tonks, who never stays long enough."

" _Ginny,_ there is no excuse—you—we have _company_."

Was she taking offense to her daughter's violent urges or her use of the word 'uterus' with Professor Snape looming a meter away?

Ginny made an expression of incredulity towards Hermione, but politely urged toward her mother, "Lighten up, Mum! It's only Hermione—oh, and Professor Snape. Hello, Professor."

"Miss Weasley," Snape said coolly, while rather uncomfortably dragging his dark eyes along the portraits and shadows as if in search of something. Obviously as overwhelmed as Hermione was with this strange safe house, no doubt filled to the brim with Weasleys of all ages and darker artifacts than a cursed portrait, he seemed to (for once) be out of his element. After realizing they were all looking at him, she noted that his cheeks appeared to flush slightly. Perhaps in response to his reaction, his face twisted into a trademark scowl.

Was that a bad habit or a defense mechanism?

"Has something happened?" Molly asked him with a furrowed brow.

"No. Miss Granger is to remain at Grimmauld for the summer, as she said, at the urging of the headmaster... it was believed sooner was safer for all parties involved."

"Oh, yes. I—er, received his letter. Thank you for fetching her, Severus, it was very kind of you," Molly was too polite for her own good, "Have you eaten, dear?"

The potions master looked like he wanted very much to just run for the door rather than eat with Mrs. Weasley, "As usual, I shall decline."

"Come now, there will be plenty of food! We would be honored—"

"No—thank you," the professor said grumpily. Mrs. Weasley made the face that she made whenever anyone tried to fend off her cooking (especially someone as skinny as the potions master)—one of suspicion and then determination.

"Severus, I insist!"

Without further discussion, the potions master turned, eager for the door, but stopped dead in his tracks. Not a moment after, a figure emerged from a perch at the landing of the staircase, fingers curling through the air in a mock show of gentility.

"My, my _Snivellus_ … how kind of you to call upon your old friend Sirius."

Snape sniffed, jutting his nose upward. For a moment, she thought he might just brush past without a word, but he seemed to remember something and greeted the man with a gritted, "Black."

It came out like a snarl, but Sirius grinned smugly at the sound.

"Oh, dear," Molly Weasley said, glancing worriedly to Ginny, waving her hands as if to usher the girl into the kitchen. The redhead ignored her mother, and was rapt at attention towards the two dark-haired men, looking interested but also slightly worried. She could sense the tension between them if her furrowed brow was any indication.

Oh _, fuck,_ was more accurate—remembering, very clearly, how much Snape's face contorted when he had faced Sirius that night in her third year. Hermione's hand flew upward, to the time turner around her neck, and she knew—if she had not worn it that night, Snape would have likely killed Sirius, either directly or by way of the Dementor's Kiss.

While Harry had been convinced that Snape wanted to earn glory for the capture of a killer, Hermione was not so stupid. There was history there, between the two. One that having them in close proximity in closed in spaces would not be advisable.

"Off so soon? And without even a parting greeting."

Hermione's eyes darted to Ginny's. Mrs. Weasley was wringing her hands, eyes jumping from man to man, trying to decipher which she would have a better chance of restraining. Snape was no longer facing the door, but had turned to face Black slowly, almost lethally, with a calm sort of preciseness that made her shiver.

"Don't fret, _Black_. It's nothing against your hospitality. You are ever the gracious house pet," If he was angry, his features did not reveal it, "I merely can't stand the stench of dog."

"That's right—you prefer the company of rats, don't you, Snivellus?"

She could see the man's jaw tighten—gritting his teeth. In moments, the veneer had cracked and the man beneath was struggling to contain his anger. Sirius, on the other hand, was the picture of cool arrogance. Hermione noticed that the convict appeared healthier, although still slightly gaunt, and in his heavier form he was far handsomer than she remembered. In place of the rags she'd seen him wear last were finer clothes: robes with a vest and suit-pants and a pocket-watch with a golden chain. His hair was cleaner, shorter, both curly and dark and handsome. His eyes, eerily gray, peered at Snape with a contempt she had not thought possible of him, even as his mouth quirked into the smuggest of smiles.

"Sirius," she could hear Mrs. Weasley say sweetly, hopefully trying to distract him. Beneath the smile was a hint of warning that he should listen to her if he knew what was good for him, "Severus has brought Hermione to us to stay for the summer. Won't you greet your new house guest?"

His gray eyes flicked to Hermione and coyly filled with warmth, "Hermione Granger… _you_ are a sight for sore eyes. How are you, pet?"

Sirius seemed to be baiting him and kept his eyes on hers, abandoning Snape's attention for hers. She felt a blush tinge her cheeks at the huskiness of his voice, the scrutiny of his eyes, and hated herself for feeling such a way. No longer was she a thirteen year old girl, mooning over handsome older men like Gilderoy Lockhart and Sirius Black. Those days were over, she decided. She and men were over.

"Fine," she answered, evenly.

After all, she was still mourning over Viktor and all the childish fantasies she might have had over love. Honey-brown eyes dropped from his silvery gray and she missed the way he took the opportunity to look lower, as if following them to the floor. Only Snape saw it for what it really was: to evaluate her body beneath the flimsy, white cotton blouse she wore.

He turned to leave. _That_ wasn't his problem, was it?

"Come now, Severus... I was only teasing," his host stepped off the stairwell, his grin wide and feral, "Stay for supper. We can swap stories of the old days. You remember them, don't you, Snivy?"

"While I appreciate you slobbering over my departure, I have better things to do than reminisce about school," Snape hissed, "I'm sure Molly can dog-sit just fine without me."

Sirius' smile wavered, but he was quick to retort, "Better things, eh? Like bowing over for your old pal Lucius—how is the shirt lifter these days?"

" _Sirius_!"

Snape was gay? Hermione peered towards him, but she didn't see it. She couldn't see Snape desiring anyone, man or woman.

Obviously, Sirius just knew how to get the rise out of him. Hermione inwardly fumed. Anyone with a brain could see that Sirius was trying to get Snape to cast the first spell. As hateful as he was, the potions master had endured more than enough to warrant a reaction, but was _visibly_ refraining. It was discrete and subtle, but Hermione saw Snape palm his wand and grip it tightly, tight enough for lesser wood to snap. Wisely, and with great effort by his trembling hand, he did not brandish or lift it.

If ever there was a moment she could compare to a stand-off, this was it: Sirius was obviously fingering his wand in his pocket, while Snape's was clutched in fists at his sides. The Black heir's mouth was twisted in a way that revealed his teeth, yellowed from Azkaban, while the potions master was tight-lipped, scowling.

"Both of you, stop this, now," Molly insisted from the corner.

Neither men moved a muscle. It seemed the world grew still, pregnant with hatred, until...

Only when the door opened suddenly did both men reach and raise the wands. Sirius pointed it at Snape, but Snape turned his back and pointed his at the door. Shockingly, Hermione could see Harry's godfather murmuring the beginnings of a curse before anyone even stepped through, and was immediately outraged. How dirty, how unfair! The young witch stepped forward instinctively, out of Molly's reach, while reaching for her own wand.

It was very close, but Sirius' spell died on his lips while his wand was pointed directly in her face. Given another second of hesitation, she would have surely suffered from it, and there was a moment where she knew he'd registered her in front of him and still had not relented. Hermione unflinchingly glared up at the Animagus, making sure he knew exactly how she felt about him lifting his wand to the man's back.

Both of them knew she would have absorbed the spell without qualm—and both knew, also, that he had not immediately halted when he had realized what she was doing. If there had been fewer witnesses, she might have been hexed by him, simply because he was too caught up in opportunity that he wanted not to waste it.

For her, it was utterly surreal: while Snape, who had protected her time and time again despite his hatred of her, was once again concerned with protecting them, Sirius, the man who's life she had saved, was blinded by hate and willing to hex him in the back and her in the processes. While she did not think Snape was perfect, the distinction between the two wizards was made very clear in that instant that her friend's godfather did not hesitate to abuse circumstance, or lower his wand from her. As Sirius' gray eyes bored into hers, she immediately became wary when he smiled at her charmingly, almost… devilishly. Perhaps trying to will her from believing what she had seen in his eyes.

Mr. Weasley was the breaker of the ice. Having arrived home from work, and late by the looks of it, he stiffened at the end of Snape's wand. It had not been lowered, even when he might have been blasted with a spell for dropping his guard from his enemy, "Er—Ginny, dear, what comic did I last buy you?"

"X-Men: Omega, Number 1," the girl said.

"Thank you… Gentlemen," he addressed them with a calm jovial tone. She noticed with surprise that he appraised Snape with the same amount of respect he did Dumbledore, or Harry, or even Hermione. But he only nodded towards Sirius and smiled grimly. When his eyes fell upon her, still at Snape's side and facing Sirius with her arms crossed, the patriarch's face wavered in surprise, then split into a genuine smile, "Hermione! How are you?"

"I'm... well," she replied with a blush as his eyes settled once more upon her position with her back to Snape. She stepped to side and backwards slightly, feeling the tension between Snape and Black slightly dissolved, and her sleeve brushed Snape's. Sirius seemed sort of irritated when she did not flinch in surprise, but merely smoothly adjusted to stand beside the potions master. Snape, ever the elusive creature, guardedly retreated away from her as she did. For a moment, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts beneath a curtain of dark hair to hide his face, glaring towards the clock as if realizing he was late for an appointment, "And you?"

"Fine, fine," Unperturbed by the atmosphere of the foyer, Mr. Weasley brushed towards her to shake her hand, squeezing them both with his in a grandfatherly way, "And your parents?"

She was interrupted from answering by the sound of barreling feet down the stairs. Perhaps having heard the rising voices (although not disturbed by the still muttering portrait), Ron appeared. He opened his mouth to say something mundane, but caught her in his sights and blurted, "'Mione?"

She replied as she always had when he used her detested nickname, "Hello, _Ronald_."

His face darkened slightly, as if remembering something unpleasant, "What are you doing _here_?"

"She's staying for the summer, Ronniekins," Ginny answered smartly, "And don't pretend like you weren't just begging for someone to keep you company besides me! Careful what you wish for, you git."

"Ginevra Molly," the matriarch warned of her daughter.

"Sorry, Mum—you _toe rag,_ " she corrected with a wink at Hermione.

Ron's scowl hinted that he did not share the sentiment, "Oi! Don't be a bint, Gin."

 _"RONALD BILIUS!"_

His ears turned red and he shriveled when she began to rant, "In the kitchen, all of you! Ginny, Ron, you are both on punishment—don't give me those looks. Set the table and you both will be on dish duty tonight, and early chores tomorrow. Not a peep, Ronald. _Get_!"

Mrs. Weasley's face was frowning at her daughter, then apologetically smiled towards her guest, "Please, go and wash up, Hermione. Dinner is nearly ready."

The young witch glanced towards Snape, Sirius, and Mr. Weasley. None of the men were concerned with her, however. Snape was slightly separated from the other two. When Sirius jutted out an arm, Mr. Weasley grabbed it and pulled him away, smiling all the while. He was telling a story, despite Sirius' obvious disinterest. Across the hall, Hermione met Snape's eye. The weight of them made her feel strangely and she fell into step with Ginny.

"You alright?"

"Fine," she answered Ginny.

 _Just a little stunned._

She heard Ron mutter to himself. He was craning to look over his shoulder at the door, "I thought the Bat was staying? Just 'bout lost my appetite."

Hermione glanced towards the corridor. She saw that Sirius was looming near the stairs, distracted by Arthur, who had pulled him aside and was cornering him into a conversation to prevent him from following. Snape was taking advantage of the distraction which the Weasley patriarch had offered him, slinking towards the door. No one else seemed to care that he was leaving, nor did they offer him a parting remark, or thank him for being so prepared to protect them while their humble host was distracted.

Ron guffawed when she stepped around him. Before she had realized it, Hermione had left the trotting teenagers and was rushing past Sirius and Mr. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley made a squeaking sound, and perhaps reached out to grab and prevent her, but Hermione was too quick. Both men stopped talking as she rushed past, their eyes following her as she rushed towards the door. The portrait, too, seemed quiet when she reached out and grabbed Snape's by the forearm, preventing him from opening the door completely.

The door shut with a snap beneath their combined weight and the witch could feel him jerk instinctively, almost as if pained. She realized how stupid she was—he'd been ready to hex Sirius blind not moments before! What might he have done to her—to anyone—in that moment, thinking it was him? Well, she would be lucky to suffer only minor disfigurement. She held her breath for a long moment, but no spell came.

When her mind and body could function again, she felt the muscles of his arm tremor beneath her fingers. Knowing he would likely be scathing and mean, she stumbled over the words as hastily as she could.

"I just… wanted to say thank you—sir," she said, "For seeing me safely here."

She was still angry with him, for what had happened during the Third Task, for both taking too much and then ignoring the rest. For being under Dumbledore's thumb, just as she was. But she could remember the loneliness in his eyes and it crippled her. Too curious for her own good, she wondered, likely naively, that if he wasn't so guarded around Sirius, could she find kinship again in him. If he would share it with her, as he had once before, would she find that he was more than a monster?

Or would he ravage her memories, ignore her desperate pleas for his help, and stalk away in a shroud of darkness and cruelty?

As she searched his gaze, Hermione could see the way his jaw was clenched so tightly, as if he was making every effort to refrain from exploding. Beneath the flesh and skin, he was a man of tumultuous thoughts and emotions: as complex as she was, if not more. To forgive him would not be a weakness, she decided, but a strength. But she could only forgive so much of him. They were, after all, as different as they were alike.

"Considering they are empty-headed as you are, I find that I could care less about your niceties, _Miss_ Granger," the professor spat loudly, sneering at her, although she was too prepared to let it anger her. As she bore his snarling expression with little more than a nod in agreement, she could feel eyes widen upon her, and wondered if the faint redness to his cheeks was from anger or embarrassment. He'd obviously expected her to cower from him, not agree with him.

Slowly, lethally—as he had with Sirius—he leaned into her, causing her to stiffen considerably. In a lower voice, still loud enough for the others to hear, he quipped, "Next time you decide to paw at me without my consent, I will forcibly remove you, you stupid, insufferable girl."

In the blackness of his gaze, she could see the shadows of his thoughts: and rather than enter her mind as he had before, his brushed against hers. It was just the barest, most tender of caresses against her temples, as if lips were pressed along them rather than fists. Stunned to silence, her eyes held his for a long, pregnant moment—obsidian to golden brown, unmoving, unbroken. Hermione could not describe how, but she knew that the words, the glares, the insults were all for show, that although he spoke them passionately, they were not as sincere as one was led to believe.

Why, she would not ever know, but he had spared her a kindness. Rather than allowing her to feel the brunt of his verbal lashing, he apologized in the only way he knew how.

She could practically taste it, his apology, along with several other darting, nameless emotions she did not think he had meant to share with her. It was only a moment, however, and the vestiges of thoughts were quelled as quickly as they arrived. Still, in their absence, in _his_ absence, she felt a great thirst to feel them again. If she could have touched them, she would have traced the surface of them, memorizing the textures with her fingertips, as if she were tracing the planes of his lips.

Alas, after but an instant, it was as if they had never existed, and neither could she recall the true sensation of them. He flew from her mind effortlessly, while simultaneously wiping his face clean of emotion and her heart of any comprehension at all.

When he moved towards her, ever so slightly, ever so predatory, Hermione yanked her hand away with a slight, if nauseatingly pathetic whimper. He continued to return his wand to its hiding place, and his face melted into slow, satisfied smirk, as if he were pleased with her fear. Only she, who had been privileged with such a secret, would know that he was pleased with her ability to pretend. It was the last act for the watchful eyes of Sirius and a smattering of the Weasley clan, and she'd played her part, just as he had, wanting very badly to prove to him that she was just as capable of lurking in shadows as she was.

After all, that was how they had connected in the first place, during the Yule Ball: she and here were but two downtrodden outcasts, wandering, anchored ghosts amongst the freely breathing mortals that shunned them and could never, ever understand them.

With a stunned sort of horror, she realized that he could _see_ her. Like Viktor could. Luckily, he was already sweeping away and could not see the way her lips parted in surprise or her eyes flew open to gaze at him with a stupid sense of wonder. When his back was turned to her, she heard him clearly say, quietly and for her ears only, "Trust no one, Miss Granger, least of all anyone here."

How could she trust anyone ever, ever again, when she had never tasted their mind like she'd tasted his?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Another installment... enjoy.**

 _Playlist:_ ** _Creep – Radiohead_** ** _(this should be Severus' anthem in like every SSHG)_** _, Got to My Head – WATERS, Killing in the Name – Rage Against the Machine, Gun In My Hand – Dorothy, Arsonist's Lullaby – Hozier, Gone Forever – Mick Flannery, Ain't No Angel – Ron Pope, Away From Me – CHINAH, Where I Find You – Dustin Tebbutt_

Chapter Four

·

"The soul helps the body, and at certain moments raises it. It is the only bird that sustains its cage."  
 _Victor Hugo_

·

 _"Give it to me!"_

 _Harry's fingers yanked, his nails scratched. When he finally grasped it, the thing which he wanted from her, he pulled as hard as he could—the chain of the time turner strained against the tense tendon of her neck, and Hermione, too stunned to move, could only cry out in despair as it did._

 _The boy who she once called friend was practically choking her with it, he tugged so hard, "You don't deserve it!"_

 _She whimpered when he pulled harder, like a child who fought for a toy they no longer wished to share. Hermione pleaded over the sputtering gasps of air, "Harry, I'm your friend._ _Please, you're hurting me."_

 _"How dare you call yourself my_ friend— _you are nothing but a coward_. Give. It. To. Me! _"_

 _Eyes that were once green flashed red and she was too stunned by the transition from tender boy to furious devil to resist. The slender, delicate gold broke under his strength, and the weight of the time turner, such a constant in her life, was sent careening away from them, leaving her bereft._

 _Harry watched it with a bored look on his face, lips slightly upturned in a menacing way, red eyes gleaming like rubies and watching the gold dance through the air, catching the light as it spun. He'd wanted it so badly: but not to cherish it like she had. He just wanted to destroy it._

 _"Harry—Harry, you have to catch it!"_

 _When she stumbled to catch it, arms slithered around her, yanking her backwards. Time seemed to move so slowly: the turner glided in an arc towards the ground away from them, all but suspended. When it collided with the stone either the device would shatter and the sand would spill, creating a disastrous ruin, or it would bounce, likely turn itself, and keep turning for all of time, warping whoever dared get close enough with it._

 _Best case (and likely the most impossible) scenario, the thing would merely crack, but not shatter, rendering it useless. It was still unfortunate: she would no longer be able to manipulate time to help him or be able to convince him that she was worthy of it. Not that she had been much help so far, but if it could save Harry, she would use it._

 _But could it save him? Could it save_ anyone _?_

 _Hermione felt tears spill over her cheeks, and she pleaded with the unseen arms that bound her, preventing her from grabbing the falling golden charm. They were too strong for her. The grip was intense: warm, strong, but restricting. She did not have to turn to know it was Snape who held her back._

 _"Please, Professor!"_

 _"Stupid, insufferable girl—as if I had a choice."_

There's always a choice, _she wanted to weep. But she knew it would be ignored. She stopped resisting her captor, melting against him in defeat. It was the potions master, and although outwardly he would scorn her, inwardly they were the same. He saw her and briefly—briefly she had seen him._

 _Strong arms curled around her, pulling her into him, only a breath away from absorbing into him. When she whimpered, his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging curls into his palms and twisting them around his fingers. His scent was musky, sprinkled with sweat and the barest hint of clove, and it enveloped her in a cloud of safety and warmth._

 _Hermione turned her face upward and back. It was so tempting to turn into his warmth, to let his billowing robes shield her from the world and she wanted very much to disappear into them and hide forever—but when she looked up at the man, it wasn't Snape. It was Sirius._

 _His smile was mischievously handsome, but seeing it made her insides whither. There was blood caked on his lips and teeth, like when she'd saved his life and his skin had been so dry and cracked, his teeth rotting and black. Madness lingered in his eyes: grief and anger and lust. He was a young man trapped in a decaying, aging body, a prisoner of time whereas she was free to come and go as she pleased._

 _He spoke to her as if she were a prize, a possession, "You are a sight for sore eyes."_

 _His mouth crushed against hers and he tasted like copper and ash. Hermione thrashed against him, swiping him with nails, teeth, limbs. She broke free of him, barely, falling to her knees as she did, although she continued to kick and thrash._

 _"Don't touch me," she hissed, when he crouched in front of her, offering her a kind hand._

 _When his face twisted and he struck her arm, despite her warning, her skin sizzled as his flesh began to melt away, seared by her magic. The animagus was sent spurning away from her, jaws snapping as he turned into a dog that ran to Harry's side to nip at his heels and growl at her._

 _She did not hesitate to watch them, but immediately stumbled to her feet and headed for the turner. It, however, was so far, and every step she took time seemed to slow around her, until they were both gliding in slow motion towards the center of the Great Hall._

 _Harry raged with disgust behind her, "How could you do this to me, Hermione? You were supposed to help us!"_

Please, _she pleaded inwardly,_ I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to save you!

 _"You're a hypocrite! A traitor! Fumbling coward! Beseecher of lies!" Harry ignored her, watching the time turner fall—doing nothing to help her as she slid towards the ground to intercept it. She was feet away when it hit the ground, sending the glass shattering and the sand within scattering over her feet._

 _She covered her eyes, but his words rang against her temples, "I hate you, Hermione Granger."_

 _His voice echoed when time began to merge together, until all the surrounded her was Death, or perhaps nothingness. Hermione, reaching for him, for Harry, for Severus—reaching for anything to save her._

 _"You failed. You failed. You failed."_

 _The words chanted over her, but the world was all blackness, and she was so alone, so alone: no friends, no turner, no savior. Still, she reached, up and up and up, hoping to find someone to catch her fall—_

Hermione woke up, a cry caught in her throat, half-suspended over the ground with her hand stretched as far as it could muster. The witch wavered, nearly toppled over the edge. She managed to anchor herself and, once balanced, collapsed against the bed on her stomach. She stifled her gasp with her forearm and the pillow, shuddering as she bit into her slick skin.

When she had gathered her wits, she reached immediately for the time turner around her neck to make certain it was not, indeed, shattered all around her.

As she cradled the thankfully whole device to her chest, she blinked through the darkness, towards Ginny's prone, softly snoring form. There were enough rooms that she could have had her own, but Molly had insisted that she board with her daughter. Hermione didn't really mind—or wouldn't have, if Mrs. Weasley hadn't been so persistent and if Ginny wasn't so… vibrant. Sometimes, even her hair could be obnoxiously loud. It wasn't her fault, however… she was easier to forgive than Ron, at least. Out of everyone at Grimmauld, she could tolerate Ginny the most.

It was proving to be an less than tolerable summer. Hermione had never been one for cuticle care, but over the last week, she'd begun to grow an abhorrence for dirty fingernails. Each night, she spent an hour cleaning her hands, trying to wash the black gunk out from beneath each and every nail. Mrs. Weasley was determined to make them learn the value "of hard work", but Hermione saw it for what it was: she wanted to keep them occupied, so that they wouldn't get themselves into trouble.

The muggleborn witch also learned within a few days that Ron thought Sirius was the most wicked Order member, considering he would always spell their work done for them, to sneak them away to show them old photographs, and tell them stories of his days at their age—at least when he wasn't in one of his moods. When he was brooding, it was like walking on egg-shells just existing in his vicinity. Luckily, when he was like that, he typically locked himself away in either his room or his dead brother's.

Hermione, on the other hand, avoided being alone with the animagus. She still hadn't forgiven him for what he'd done... and she had read up on the effects of long-term exposure to Dementors. Although turning into a dog had helped him immensely, the wizard would not be immune. He would be prone to depression, fits of anger, restlessness, insomnia… lack of inhibition; not to mention he had been so young and thus was more susceptible to permanent damage. She couldn't imagine being sentenced at twenty-one years old to life among soul-sucking reapers.

Of course, it was no wonder he wanted to be free to roam, and that he sought out the company of Ron and Ginny and Hermione, rather than Molly (who would?) during the day. He was still likely emotionally and mentally the same young man who was dragged to Azkaban after losing his two dearest friends to murder: lacking the rationality of another man of his years, in body, at least.

If she were naïve, or as young as she looked, she would have mistaken his lingering gazes, his charming words, as innocent flirting. Having been subjected to the heated glances of a passionate Bulgarian, she knew better. But remembering that Sirius was confined to Grimmauld Place, she could not fault him for the glances and the weighted words. He was likely just… randy, after having been locked away for twelve years and on the run for two more. That having been granted, she did not think he was the most subtle of wizards and she knew for a fact he'd made up for all those years.

She'd watched a few of the Order witches disappear upstairs with him; perhaps randy wasn't the word she was looking for. In two weeks of her stay, he'd proven himself rather open-minded, if not promiscuous. Not one to pass judgement of such a kind (honestly, she couldn't exactly judge, after her own scandalous affair), she merely looked the other way, tried not to gossip with Ginny about it when the redhead pressed the issue, and did her best to avoid him.

Mrs. Weasley was just as observant of Sirius' behavior, which did not make it easy for any of them. Perhaps he was the reason they were smothered with chores. The matron made certain the women he slept with were cryptically chastised on their way out, as if that would stop them, and guarded Ginny and Hermione like a hawk—not that Ginny was the one he wanted, but Molly was far more protective of her, and yet far less trusting of Hermione.

The Weasley matriarch seemed hyper aware of what Hermione was doing at all times, morning and night. It was almost as if she had been given a mission by Dumbledore himself to make sure the bookish witch was not up to anything nefarious.

This was what Snape had warned about, right? She did not dare ask him… she wasn't even certain he had said the words. A traitorous voice reminded her that she could have made it up—that she could be imagining things. What if she was wrong and she was making too big a deal out of nothing? After all, so far it was just innocent flirting with his godson's best friend on Sirius' part and characteristic overbearingness on Molly's. Could she really use those as reasons not to trust them?

Snape's words echoed in her mind, reminding her that this was a sentence: punishment, perhaps, for her liaison with Viktor, or her near breakdown during the Third Task. She was being kept close, where she could do no harm, where she could not hide from magic or from her duty (just as was the case with Sirius, kept under Molly's thumb just as she was).

With a barely audible sigh, the bushy-haired witch rolled onto her back, letting the device slip back underneath her shirt. Damp skin brushed against dampened sheets, cold against cold. The nightmares often left her in a cold sweat, and considering she didn't have her wand to freshen them, she would have to wash them again or suffer.

 _Might as well wash them_ , she knew. It was endless anyway. One more sheet among dozens of old linens was nothing.

She glared towards the clock: it was just after three. Now would be the best time to turn back time, as she had been asleep for roughly five hours and wouldn't necessarily run into herself during the time frame. With the extra turn, she could revise an essay, or research—get a snack from the kitchen or just… anything but sleep. She knew better than to try to return to it once the dreams began to start.

There was a silver lining to being a bit of an insomniac with a time turner: at least she could be productive and still catch up on her sleep. Nighttime was when she did most of her turning, as people were less likely to catch her in two or three places at once. It was the perfect time to get some light reading finished, especially since Molly banged on the door to wake them at the crack of dawn for some task or other to keep their minds off of mischief. Hermione typically was an early riser, but only because she liked to wake herself up reading—that wasn't possible when everyone was being carted out of their rooms for breakfast. Nor was she allowed the past time during the early afternoon, considering they clocked in hour after hour scrubbing mold off of the floor and washing stains by hand from moth-eaten furniture.

She'd slept more than she had in a few weeks, having been sent off to bed early due to the ensuing Order meeting downstairs and thanks to the time turner. And if she was inclined, sometimes she'd nap for an hour while everyone was eating dinner. It was the only time she knew exactly where everyone was, after all.

Tonight, she'd refrained from sneaking off to use it in the evening. Ron and Ginny had huddled with her in the girls' room, playing a card game which Hermione abhorred. After trying vainly to read a book on house elf lineage that she'd found in the Black library, wanting to find some way for Kreacher to warm to her, she'd turned her back to them and feigned sleep. She vaguely remembered Ron trying to wake her when the meeting started and ignoring him.

When he'd left Ginny had thrown a pillow at her, teasing her for putting her brother through the ringer. There was no threat in it—if anyone could understand how irritating Ronald was, it was his baby sister. She knew he was incorrigible.

That was one of the other downfall of her having been forced to stay in the bleary House of Black. Considering the two companions of the Boy-Who-Lived weren't talking to each other quite yet, since their long-lasting arguments of the previous term, being in close quarters was rather uncomfortable. Ronald was holding a rather large grudge, although she believed he was merely him waiting for her to apologize just for the sake of it, or to admit that it had just been a fling. She refused to. While Dumbledore might make her feel foolish for her relationship with Viktor, Ron had absolutely no right to. She wasn't sharing him with anyone she didn't have to.

And if he had wanted to be the one in his place, there had been enough opportunity for him to find her and ask her himself before she was asked by Viktor. But if that wasn't what he was mad about, then she hadn't a clue why he didn't just _talk_ to her about it, rather than beating around the bush.

She was tired of being the only mature one of their lot who communicated how she felt and what she thought. Even Harry was beginning to grow irritated with Ron's antics, at least before the First Task, and she was growing tired of them both being reckless idiots and having to clean up after all their mess. Still, she supposed they both knew just how to infuriate her, which was her own fault. Their entire friendship had blossomed from the very fact that both knew how to annoy and hurt her. But a young Hermione had been so desperate for friends—and while she could say she had settled for whomever came first, she knew it wasn't true. If it was, then she wouldn't feel so bloody hurt whenever he picked at her, or when Harry took his anger out on her. But although she loved her friends and could not think of a worthier pair, how could she ever have _liked_ Ronald, out of the two of them?

 _Nobody is perfect, least of all me._

 _And Harry's—well, it'd be like snogging a brother._

It was natural that she'd gravitate towards Ron, having no one else at Hogwarts who even spared her a glance. But as young as they were, she knew that she was capable of such great, awe-inspiring emotions, ones that had obviously blinded her to their incompatibilities, ones that had made her body ignite and her heart shatter. Ronald, however… Ronald had the emotional capability of a toadstool. Anything beyond friendship with him would now prove sickeningly boring for her, having been spoiled by Viktor. It would be blissfully domestic, but boring.

And if Ron couldn't handle even the basest of feelings now, how could he ever deal with loss, with romantic _love,_ with passion? He was too blinded by his own jealousies and inadequacies to ever compare to Viktor in that aspect… not that she compared them at all.

Perhaps a little.

"Enough," she told herself harshly, sparing Ginny a wary glance. She was wasting precious time. Even with the turner, every second was valuable.

Luckily for her, time was still on her side.

Having used the device for a while, she was always careful to frequently check her elegant classic wristwatch, bought by her father in her second year when she'd complained of her electric one having failed while at Hogwarts. And in her pocket was the charmed compact that had been McGonagall's present to her, gifted after the time turner had been approved. It kept track of the hours—the real hours—which Hermione had lived, and also marked the last time she had turned, how far she had gone back, and how many copies there would be of her if she had done so multiple times.

 _Sixteen years, eight months, twenty days, fourteen hours, and twenty-nine and a half-seconds old._

Time flew when you abused it. In less than four months she would be seventeen (if she never turned again)! Seventeen years old—of age in the wizarding world. Funny, wasn't it? She'd almost gained an entire year with the time turner and would be of age a year sooner. If she scheduled her turns correctly, she could align her birthday again. Wouldn't that be a fun puzzle to solve?

If she turned back three hours and a breadth, now, she'd have just long enough to allow her to slip out just before her past-self slipped back in and before Mrs. Weasley set the ward. Being careful not to step on the creaks before the threshold of their room, she turned the necessary amount. Almost immediately, she dashed for the library (down the hall and to the right), knowing that Molly would arrive soon enough. It was just in time—footsteps carried softly behind her on the stairs, preventing her from closing the library door fully without alerting whoever it was to her presence.

"Has Albus lost his mind? It's already enough that our children are in this—this—"

"Molly, it may not be pretty, but it is safe."

"Relatively! I mean, honestly, it's a wonder this place hasn't collapsed."

"Of course, dear. Sirius was wrongfully imprisoned for twelve years—he was hardly capable of keeping up with it while in Azkaban."

"Oh, you know what I _mean_ , Arthur!"

"I know, dear... it's not a 'healthy environment for the children'."

"At all. Even the spoons were cursed, for Merlin's sake!"

Hermione rolled her eyes—and yet we're the ones inhaling the dust as we clean. Honestly, it was almost as if she spelled it back on the next day just to keep them busy.

But she'd rather it was her than that poor, wretched house elf who was slaving away.

"The situation could be far worse, Molly."

"WORSE?" She hissed, "What could possibly be worse?"

"Dumbledore also promised protection from Him here. That's why we left the Burrow."

"And yet, I feel as unsafe as ever."

"That's normal, Molly. This is the beginning of a war."

She leaned forward against the frame of the door, hardly registering that her dressing gown was falling off her shoulders, her hair was a right mess, and her skin was slightly sticky from her night-sweats.

"I cannot lose anyone again, Arthur."

For once, she agreed with Molly.

"Shh, my love. You worry too much," Arthur urged, insistently.

Hermione stood still in the shadows of the library, the door only slightly cracked so she could hear. She thought maybe Arthur had heard her, but instead, she heard Molly say hurriedly, " _Oh!_ "

Slightly disturbed at how breathily Mrs. Weasley could moan, Hermione stepped backward into the library, knowing they would be distracted with each other. With slight trepidation, she sidled inward. When she was certain they were gone, she closed the door completely.

"Taking advantage of your little toy, Miss Granger?"

She didn't even reach for her wand. But her heart did fly into her chest and she turned around, socks slipping over the slick wood. Instead, she was given the man in question, wandless and lurking near the bookcases, trailing a finger along their edges with a bored expression on his face. Dark eyes bore into her wide, shocked ones, plucking at her thoughts.

She only barely managed to catch her breath before she dropped her gaze, clutching to her chest in shock, " _Fuck._ Do you just naturally lurk wherever you go?"

His face twisted into a disapproving expression when he surveyed her form. She instantly reached for the edges of her dressing gown over her shirt, which to her dismay was worn without a bra. As she crossed her arms defensively over her chest, his expression darkened and he turned to face the books.

"Do you just naturally shove your nose where it doesn't belong?" He drawled.

"How—" It was her turn to scowl, as she felt a presence in her mind that wasn't meant to be there, "Stay out of my head."

"My, my," he said tautly, "Such high demands from someone so… slight."

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

" _Stay_ _out_ _of_ _my_ _head_ ," she repeated, "Or I'll—"

Er, what would she do, exactly?

"You'll… what?" The potions master taunted, turning only his head, ever so slightly, "You'll hex me? You'll tell Molly? The headmaster?"

She fell silent. It wasn't exactly the excuse she was looking for, but would have been aligned, she supposed.

"Insufferable girl. Your naiveté is showing in more ways than one, Granger."

His dark eyes flicking from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, lingering in places where they shouldn't have. Hers narrowed over his long form in a similar fashion—he wore robes, black, floor-length, buttoned to his chin. His eyes seemed heavy, dark, and his face was worn.

Wearing these clothes, he looked much older than he had in the Muggle ones… or perhaps he was just tired, given the dark circles beneath his eyes and the luminescent sheen to his skin.

She dared challenge him with her own jibe, "The same could be said of your senility, _Snape_."

If he was angered by her forgetting, once again, to address him as sir or Professor, he gave no indication of it. He merely turned to face the books once more.

"Go back to bed, little witch," he instructed towards her when she remained after a time, "Before something dangerous comes and eats you up."

Hermione shivered when he turned his face ever so slightly, so that she could see the quirking of his lips. She ignored his taunts and swept over towards the bookcase that was opposite of him, drawing her dressing gown around her. Grimmauld Place wasn't exactly chilly, but she found she was feeling rather naked.

Never one to back down from making a point, however, she said, "I'm perfectly safe here."

"Are you now?"

"Yes," she insisted, back to him, "I'm with you, aren't I?"

"Imprudence is unflattering."

"It's not imprudent, it's a fact, and I don't care about flattery," she answered hotly back, turning to glare at him over her shoulder, "You've saved me more times than I can—"

He spun on her then, his features turning dark and twisty, "On Dumbledore's orders, yes, I have saved you from your own stupidity and Potter's. But if it were his order to let you die… well, you know all about necessary sacrifices, don't you, little witch?"

She opened her mouth, stunned, and felt the hurt and betrayal grow in her belly. Still, she clung to that brief moment of understanding between them—if she were going to trust him, that apology would have to be long-lasting in her memories.

His words would make it easy to forget, but she had a good enough memory that she could at least _try._

"I do," she said, lifting her chin, "I imagine you do, too."

"You wouldn't want to imagine what I know all about."

"Wouldn't anyone?"

He scowled, lifted a hand, "Do you see anyone else daring to pester me at such a delicate hour?"

She took a deep, calming breath through her nose, then expelled it.

"If you are feeling pestered, then I must remind you that this isn't your library or Hogwarts', Professor. If you hadn't already noticed, we are both _guests_ here," Hermione pondered aloud, shooting him a look of incredulity as she plucked a books from the shelf at random.

"Some more welcome than others," he hissed, mostly to himself.

"But guests nonetheless," She muttered, turning to fully face him now, sizing him up with her shoulders thrown back. It was perhaps lost on him, her determined stance, considering her sleeve slipped again, revealing a bare shoulder once more, "You lack jurisdiction to bar me from it."

"Do I now?"

"Yes."

His eyes glinted in a way that made her heart race a little bit faster, "And what if I decided to test the boundaries of my… jurisdictions?"

His figure was so imposing, and although his voice was velvety, she could detect a darkness in it: there were many obvious reasons why she could believe he was telling the truth. He could threaten her and he likely would, to get his way, knowing him.

But whatever he expected her to do with that threat, she couldn't help but want to do some testing of boundaries of her own.

She shrugged, "You can choose to fight me, or help me; it's up to you what you want to waste your energy on."

There was no change in expression, no movement. He just stared at her, wearing the same glinting, dark eyes and frown he always wore. Behind them, however, she could see a flicker of amusement and perhaps… perhaps surprise.

Oh, how could she ever have hoped to surprise him, of all people—but it made something in her swell with pride. It was not a feeling she'd been blessed with lately.

Eagerly, she pounced on her opportunity, "In a show of good faith, I propose a truce."

"And why would I subject myself to a compromise with you, of all people, Miss Granger?"

"Because," she began to say, despite the soft roll of his eyes at her precise punctuation, "we both have to either live in or frequent this rotting place against our will, and this library, at this time of night, is the only place and time where I am not surrounded in seas of Weasleys, not to mention the only time and place where I am not up to my elbows in fucking doxy shit or dead puffskeins. It's the only place I feel normal."

"You are incapable of normalcy," the potions master reminded her.

"Well, I like to kid myself, on occasion."

"Gross delusions are a sign of mental illness, Granger."

"Ha," she huffed, growing irritated with him—he was wasting precious minutes deliberating with her. If he didn't want the library, he could let her have it and if he did, he could let her know so she could pilfer what she needed and leave him be, "All that besides… considering you're going to be here quite often, and you're likely going to seek the same reprieve, can we just agree that this in this room of all rooms, is a sacred space?"

His brow quirked towards her as he lazily turned the page of the book which he'd plucked while she blurted out her speech. She matched the expression as best as she could, crossing his arms at his lack of seriousness. Having known him for four to five years, she could tell he was actually thinking about it. Otherwise, he would have already shot her down.

After a time of staring at him, he lifted a hand, waving her towards one half of the library—silently agreeing to her terms, or so she hoped, and committing her to her fair share. She knew better than to expect him to spend time teaching her, tutoring her, or babying her and dutifully headed towards the opposite end.

When he sent a disapproving look towards her, she smiled brightly, "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Don't tempt me, Granger," the man practically growled when he selected his book and gracefully sat upon the sofa nearest the lamp.

"I wouldn't dream of it," She snapped, before she made great efforts to try to forget that he even existed.

Being the bookworm she was, he was forgotten in less than a minute.

·

Severus glanced up from his perch on a sofa in the corner at the girl. For gods' sake, she wasn't making it easy on herself, was she? Miss Granger was proving to be unaware of the womanly changes of her body, or perhaps she just wasn't the modest girl she claimed to be whilst donning her ever-perfect Hogwarts uniform.

In place of the humble skirt, vest, and blouse, she wore a flimsy dressing gown which clearly wanted nothing to do with her slight little body. Not moments after sliding into the library, the sleeves had slipped sensually down her shoulder. She'd corrected it, absently, when he'd evaluated her, but it fell soon after she plopped down on the sofa farthest from him as was physically possible. Beneath the delicate, clingy fabric she wore comfortable Muggle clothes: cotton shorts and a slip of a shirt, and a pair of socks that teased the bottom of her knees, but left her thighs visible for him to ogle. The attire, although far from scandalous, left little to the imagination. The porcelain flesh he'd never cared to look for was revealed in bountiful amounts. The witch had nice skin, if a little sweaty; the majority of it appeared soft and pale and supple.

Severus frowned at her when she shifted, stretching out over the sofa while curling to face away from him, revealing a curvy thigh and tiny feet which she habitually tucked into the folds of the couch and now freed to wiggle her toes as if they had fallen asleep. Watching her rustle so domestically was a crime, in his opinion, but he could not look away.

It was foolish. Severus was not a lecher, but when his eyes slid over her body, however, a part of him acknowledged that she was no longer a child, but a woman. Black's obvious interest in her was not unfounded, despite how disgusting it was to him to think they shared the same taste in women. But of course, while Severus refrained from tasting the forbidden fruit, as always, Black _would_ sacrifice his freedom for some poor girl's cunt. The potions master wasn't completely convinced, however, that Dumbledore hadn't planted the suggestion in his mind.

After twelve years in Azkaban, it would be easy to shape the mutt's desires. If Severus could trust himself to do so without ripping his mind apart, he would have done so already—instructing the twit to leave him be, or perhaps making him give into a certain underlying desire to go after Lupin while in mutt form and hump him incessantly. _That_ would be a sight he would give a limb to see.

But he would be the first one they'd accuse of sabotage, so he refrained, even for the sake of Miss Granger's "innocence". That was a matter to be dealt with subtly, if with as much immediacy that subterfuge could provide.

The girl shifted again, lifting an arm over her head and squirming uncomfortably. The wizard dropped his gaze when she glanced towards him, perhaps checking to make sure he was not watching her. Convinced he was absorbed in his book, she returned to her own, but drew the night gown around her like a shawl, wrapping all that tender flesh away and draping her arm over her torso to keep it in place.

He still felt the loss of it, despite trying to convince himself otherwise. Although he had committed heinous acts in his youth, he had never had such pervasive thoughts about a student before, even when he was a new teacher and the students had once been his classmates. Then again, he'd been too blinded by grief to care then about anything romantic, and his sexual desire was damaged after being so desensitized to it under the dark lord's regime. Not to mention, she'd fed into his unintentional flirtation with all the charm he would expect of someone like her…

She was far from innocent, that was certain. He had evidence of it, floating somewhere in his brain. Although the visuals were lost, he had the memory of the memory to remind him.

Hell, while he held more honor than most Death Eaters, he was not a saint—he could admit her beauty and his desire to touch her, to consume her, if only in the depths of his own mind, because he could only ever admit to being a flawed, mortal man, who appreciated feminine beauty and was rather starved of their affections as of late. Considering attachments were so dangerous, he'd been forced to turn away the few women he'd had in Hogsmeade. They had been abandoned the summer before. Since then, he was left to find company from Muggles when he found a pervasive urge. It was far from the regular occurrence. Now that he was staying in London more often,to appease Dumbledore, and being pestered by the girl's silly, slightly provincial charms, he would have to make more of an effort to indulge.

Resisting her would not have been a problem in his youth. He would have taken what he wanted, simply for the fact that he was used to getting what he wanted under Voldemort. Perhaps he might have taken advantage of his situation, even a few years ago. But he was not the same man he had been at twenty-one, nor the same one at thirty, that he was at thirty-five.

Because the fact was that he'd been a man since before she was born and, at thirty-five, that drew a very large line between them for the wizard, at least. Furthermore, the knowledge that he was but ten years younger than her father stifled any urges he might not have been able to swallow at the sight of her ripe, slender body, despite the fact that it was vulnerably, unassumingly beautiful.

His one saving grace was perhaps that her figure was far from voluptuous, which he admitted was how he preferred his women. But, alas, what she lacked in curves, she made up for in all of that supple, soft, brilliant skin casting strikingly beautiful softness to the angular lines of her frame.

 _What will it be, Severus? Will you break her, or mold her?_ _Take her, or free her?_

Was there really any difference?

What the hell was he doing here, anyway? Was he really ready to risk everything, bloody everything, for this little witch, who could offer him literally nothing in return, who would tempt him from the path he knew he should be taking? Helping her wouldn't change the fact that his death was already written in Albus' mind.

So why not reap the benefits, while he could?

It would be easy to seduce her, but he remained stoic, moving nary a muscle. From a great distance, she twisted again, mesmerizing him with her innocent, unassuming fidgeting and sighing. The wizard merely watched her, contemplating the consequences helping her would have on his livelihood and Potter's. She wanted to help him and she could help him, even without Dumbledore's demands, so why force her? Why go through all this trouble to shackle her, as he had Severus? What did the headmaster know that he didn't?

Something flickered in the back of his mind, a memory that he couldn't name, or put an image to. He shoved it away; it was likely one of hers and Krum's, coming to surface, incensed by her overabundance of sighing. Still, he frowned as the itch continued, pestering him to go after it...

When she glanced up at him a few hours later, her eyes were hooded, sleepy in that way when someone fell into a good book. For him, and no doubt for her, getting lost in a book was sometimes better than sleep, better than sex... it transported you to another world, another mind. Such a contentment on her face was not disrupted when she found him, still perched on his own sofa, pretending not to meet her eyes rather than allowing her to know that he had been watching her resolutely since she sat down. The little witch wasn't foolish enough to smile at him when she stood, the light catching the golden strands in her honeyed brown hair, but she nodded to him before padding quietly towards the exit and slipping into the hall.

The last thing he saw was the shoulder of her dressing gown falling, her lovely skin brightened by the peeking of sunlight through the drawn curtains, before the door shut and hid her away from him.

Relieved of her distracting presence, he made his decision. Albus wanted him to convince her to blind devotion of him and that typically meant lies, mind tricks, and false promises, as well as persuasions of the body. While the headmaster might fear what was to come of the war so much that he would sacrifice her childhood, her humanity, Severus had been on the other side far too long to do the same. Mortal, flawed man that he was, Severus would be damned before he let her be tainted by Black or Dumbledore… or himself, for that matter.

She would be his death, that he was sure of, whether or not he succumbed to the call of all that glorious, porcelain skin or not. But Gods help him, she'd ensnared him, and something in the back of his mind itched for him to keep her whole and safe and healthy. He'd never forgive her for it, either... nor would he ever tell her.


End file.
